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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PLAYTHINGS 

AND 

PARODIES 


AUTHOR  OF  "IN  A  CANADIAN  CANOE,"  ETC. 

SOLD  BY  THE 

MERCANTILE  LIBEABY, 
NEW  YORK. 

J131 4079 


MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 

NEW  YORK. 


NEW  YORK 

CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
104  &  106  FOURTH  AVENUE 


& 


COPYRIGHT,  1893,  BY 
CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


THE  MERSHON   COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


PR 

U3I 


DeWcatefc 

TO 

MRS.  RUDOLF  LEHMANN. 


CONTENTS. 


SREST  FORM  OF  FLATTERY  : 

I.  OF  MR.  RUDYARD  KIPLING,   .  I      •        .        .        3 
II.  OF  MR.  JOHN  RUSKIN,       .  .        .  9 

III.  OF  MR.  R.  D.  BLACKMORE,     .  j  .        .14 

IV.  OF  MR.  W.  PATER,     . 
V.  OF  COUNT  LYOF  N.  TOLSTOI, 


21 

•  25 

THE  HUNDRED  GATES, 33 

THE  SECULAR  CONFESSIONAL  : 

I.  THE  LAST  CHAPTER, 61 

^•"fi.  BROKEN  HEARTS, 66 

III.  THE  MURDER  AT  EUSTON,      ....  73 

_x-'IV.  BAD  HABITS, 79 

V.  THE  PROCESSIONAL  INSTINCT,         ...  84 

VI.  BINLEY'S  CIGARS, 90 

II.  THE  VICTIM  OF  INDIRECTNESS,       ...  96 
SKETCHES  IN  LONDON  : 

I.  UNDER  THE  CLOCK 105 

II.  OUTSIDE  A  BOARD  SCHOOL,     .        .        .        .113 

III.  A  SUNLESS  DAWN, 121 

IV.  No  THOROUGHFARE 128 

V.  IN  LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS,    ....  134 


VI  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

VI.  ON  THE  UNDERGROUND,         ....  140 

VII.  IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS,  ....  147 

VIII.  ON  WATERLOO  BRIDGE,          ....  153 

IX.  TOTTENHAM  COURT  ROAD,  .        .        .        .  159 

X.  SATURDAY  NIGHT  IN  THE  EDGWARE  ROAD,     .  165 

XI.  AT  A  FIRE, 171 

XII.  OXFORD  STREET,             177 

XIII.  NOON  IN  JUDEA, 183 

XIV.  AT  KEW, 192 

XV.  "  BANGKOLDY  "  AT  HAM  PSTEAD  HEATH,     .  199 

XVI.  THE  GHOST  OF  "GHOSTS,"     ....  209 

XVII.  A  THEME  WITH  VARIATIONS,       .        .        .  219 

XVIII.  THE  POETS  AT  TEA 225 

HOME  PETS, 

I.  BOYS, 233 

II.  GIRLS, 239 

III.  RECITERS, 247 

IV.  FANCY  PENS, 254 

V.  PERSONAL  FRIENDS, 261 

VI.  NOTEBOOKS,    .......  268 

VII.  PIANO-TUNERS,    .        .        .        .        .        .  276 

VIII.  DUKES, 282 

IX.  BABIES, 288 

X.  FIRES, 293 

XI.  CURATES, 300 

XII.  WATCHES, 306 


THE    SINCEREST    FORM   OF 
FLATTERY. 


SOLD  BY  THE 

MERCANTILE  LIBRARY, 
NEW  YORK. 

MERCANTILE  LIBRAR/, 

NEW  YORK. 


I.— OF  MR.  RUDYARD  KIPLING. 

A   SLIGHT   INACCURACY. 

THIS  is  not  a  tale.  It  is  a  conversation 
which  I  had  with  a  complete  stranger.  If  you 
ask  me  why  I  talked  to  him,  I  have  no  very 
good  reason  to  give.  I  would  simply  tell  you 
to  spend  three  hours  of  solitude  in  that  same 
compartment  on  that  same  line.  You  may  not 
know  the  line ;  which  is  neither  your  loss  nor 
the  company's  gain.  I  do,  and  I  had  spent 
three  hours  alone  on  it.  And  at  the  end  of 
three  hours  I  longed  for  human  converse.  I 
was  prepared  to  talk  Persian  poetry  to  an  as- 
sistant commissioner;  I  was  ready  to  talk  to 
anyone  about  anything;  I  would  have  talked 
to  a  pariah  dog;  talked  kindly,  too. 

So  when  the  complete  stranger  got  in  I  be- 
gan at  once.  You  see,  I  did  not  know  then 
that  he  was  an  inaccurate  young  man.  I 
thought  he  was  a  nicely  dressed,  average  sped- 


4  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

men.  It  never  does  to  judge  from  appear- 
ances. I  once  knew  a  T.  G.,  or,  rather,  Tranter 
of  the  Bombay  side  knew  him  .  .  .  but  that  is 
another  story.  First  we  talked  weather,  and 
then  we  talked  horse.  He  smoked  my  cheroots, 
and  I  told  him  several  things  which  were  quite 
true.  He  began  to  look  a  little  uneasy,  as  if 
he  were  not  used  to  that  kind  of  talk.  Then 
he  told  me  the  story  of  the  little  mare  which 
he  bought  in  Calcutta.  He  gave  Rs.  175  for 
her.  It  was  thought  by  his  friends  at  the  time 
that  he  had  been  too  generous ;  she  had  a  very 
bad  cough  and  a  plaintive  look  in  the  eyes. 

"I  have  now  had  her  for  two  years,"  he  said, 
slowly  removing  my  cheroot  from  his  lips, 
"and  she  has  not  got  over  that  cough  yet. 
She  also  continues  to  look  plaintive.  But  she 
is  fast.  The  other  day  I  drove  her  sixty  miles 
along  the  road  in  an  ekka" 

I  was  given  to  understand  that  the  time  had 
been  five  hours,  twenty  minutes,  and  a  deci- 
mal. Well,  a  country-bred  mare  will  go  almost 
any  pace  you  like  to  ask.  I  should  have 
thought  about  believing  the  man  if  he  had  not 


OF  MR.  RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


put  in  the  decimal.  As  it  was,  I  never  really 
wanted  to  call  him  a  liar  until  he  picked  up 
the  book  which  I  had  been  reading.  It  was  a 
copy  of  "Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,"  and  it  lay 
on  the  seat  by  my  side.  I  have  a  liking  for 
that  book,  and  I  often  read  it.  It  is  a  good 
book. 

"Can  you  understand,"  he  asked,  "why  that 
book  is  so  popular  in  England?  Perhaps  you 
will  allow  me  to  explain.  I  understand  books 
as  well  as  I  understand  horses  and  men.  First, 
note  this.  Even  in  your  schooldays  you  prob- 
ably saw  the  difference  between  the  prose 
of  Cicero  and  the  conversational  Latin  of 
Plautus." 

This  last  remark  enabled  me  to  place  the 
man.  He  was,  it  seemed,  a  full-sized  Oxford 
prig.  They  are  fond  of  throwing  their  edu- 
cation about  like  that.  Which  is  loathly  in 
them.  But  they  do  it.  I  explained  to  him 
that  I  had  never  been  to  school. 

"Well,  then,  to  come  down  to  your  level," 
he  continued.  "You  have  read  English  books, 
and  you  must  have  seen  that  written  English 


o  PL  A  V THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

is  not  like  spoken  English.  When  we  speak, 
for  instance, — to  take  quite  a  minor  point, — we 
often  put  a  full  stop  before  the  relative  clauses 
— add  them  as  an  afterthought." 

Which  struck  me  as  being  true. 

"But  when  we  write  we  only  put  a  comma. 
The  author  of  'Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills'  saw 
this,  and  acted  on  the  principle.  He  punctu- 
ated his  writing  as  he  did  his  speaking;  and 
used  more  full  stops  than  any  man  before  him. 
Which  was  genius." 

I  think — I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think — that  at 
this  point  I  blushed. 

"Secondly,  the  public  want  to  be  mystified. 
They  like  references  to  things  of  which  they 
have  never  heard.  They  read  the  sporting 
papers  for  that  reason.  So  this  man  wrote  of 
Anglo-Indian  life,  and  put  very  little  explana- 
tion into  it.  It  was  all  local  color.  Do  you 
suppose  the  average  cockney  knows  what 
T.  W.  D.  accounts'  are?  Of  course  he  doesn't. 
But  he  likes  to  be  treated  as  if  he  did.  The 
author  noted  this  point.  And  that  also  shows 
genius.  Thirdly,  the  public  do  not  like  the 


OF  MR.  RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


good  man,  nor  do  they  like  the  bad  man. 
They  like  the  man-who-has-some-good-in-him- 
after-all.  'I  am  cynical,'  says  our  author,  'and 
desperately  worldly,  and  somewhat  happy-go- 
lucky,  yet  I,  the  same  man,  am  interested  in 
children.  Witness  my  story  of  Tods  and  my 
great  goodness  to  Muhammed  Din.  With  all 
my  cynicism  I  have  a  kind  heart.  Was  I  not 
kind  even  unto  Jellaludin?  I  am  the  man- 
who-has-some-good-in-him-after-all.  Love  me !' 
Genius  again.  Fourthly,  take  the  subject-mat- 
ter— soldiers,  horses,  and  flirts.  Of  these  three 
the  public  never  weary.  It  may  not  have  been 
genius  to  have  seen  that.  And  the  public  like 
catch-words.  I  knew  a  girl  once  who  did  the 
serio-comic  business  at  the  -  — ,  but  that  is 
another  story.  To  recognize  the  beauty  of 
catch-words  may  not  be  genius  either.  But  it 
is  genius  to  say  more  than  you  know,  and  to 
seem  to  know  more  than  you  say — to  be  young 
and  to  seem  old.  There  are  people  who  are 
connected  with  the  Government  of  India  who 
are  so  high  that  no  one  knows  anything  about 
them  except  themselves,  and  their  own  knowl- 


8  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

edge  is  very  superficial.  Is  our  author  afraid? 
Not  a  bit.  He  speaks  of  them  with  freedom, 
but  with  vagueness.  He  says  Up  Above. 
And  the  public  admire  the  freedom,  and  never 
notice  the  vagueness.  Bless  the  dear  public !" 

The  train  and  the  complete  stranger  stopped 
simultaneously.  I  was  not  angry.  "How  do 
you  come  to  know  the  workings  of  the  author's 
mind?"  I  asked. 

I  put  the  question  calmly,  and  I  waited  to 
see  him  shrivel. 

He  never  shriveled.  He  was  getting  his 
gun-case  out  from  under  the  seat.  "I  am  the 
author,"  he  said  blandly.  "Good-afternoon." 
Then  he  got  out. 

He  was  so  bland  that  I  should  have  quite 
believed  him  if  I  had  not  written  the  book  my- 
self. As  it  is,  I  feel  by  no  means  sure  about  it. 

Which  is  curious. 


II.— OF   MR.    JOHN    RUSKIN. 

FROM   LECTURE   I. — ARROWROOT. 

49.  EAT!  Nay,  you  do  not  eat.  I  do  not 
know  why  any  man  of  us  under  heaven  should 
talk  about  eating.  We  spend  our  money — the 
money  of  a  great  nation — on  filthy  fossils  and 
bestial  pictures ;  on  party  journals  and  humili- 
ating chanties;  on  foolish  books  and  gas-lit 
churches.  And  on  solid,  honest  beef  we  will 
spend  nothing,  unless  we  are  driven  by  neces- 
sity ;  and,  even  then,  there  are  those  who  con- 
tent them  with  frozen  mutton,  the  fat  of  which 
is  base  and  inferior.  I  do  not  think  there  is 
any  sadder  sight  in  this  world  than  a  nation 
without  appetite. 

I  have  pointed  out  to-night  that  the  meat 
and  vegetables  which  you  have  despised — nay, 
which  you  are  daily  despising — go  to  form  part 
of  the  body ;  and  that  the  brain  is  a  part  of  the 
body ;  and  that  on  the  brain  all  just  concep- 


10  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

tions  depend.  So  far  we  found  that  the  scien- 
tist was  with  us.  I  left  him  dazed  and  trem- 
bling, hesitating  on  the  verge  of  conclusions 
which  I  have  not  feared  to  state  quite  plainly. 
If  you  forget  every  other  word  that  I  have  said, 
remember  at  least  those  conclusions;  for  I  do 
feel  that  they  are  significant  and  important  to 
every  one  of  us.  I  will  state  them  once  more. 
The  brain-life  increases  with  the  amount  we 
eat.  If  we  would  have  just  conceptions,  we 
must  devour  seven  solid  meat-meals  a  day.  You 
do  not  do  it.  You  cannot,  in  any  true  sense, 
be  said  to  eat.  Why  do  you  thus  neglect  your 
duty?  Have  patience  with  me  a  little  longer, 
and  I  will  show  you  why. 

I  say,  firstly,  that  with  most  of  us  this  thing 
is  a  physical  impossibility.  We  trifle  in  some 
sort  with  three,  or,  at  the  most,  four  meat- 
meals,  and  we  dare  to  say  that  we  eat.  I  do 
not  wish  to  speak  wildly  or  harshly.  On  the 
contrary,  the  wonder  to  me  is  that  we  can  do 
what  we  do  on  the  little  that  we  take.  But  have 
we  not  fallen  very  low  when,  in  our  struggle 
upward,  we  find  ourselves  blocked  by  a  physi- 


OF  MR.  JOHN  RUSKIN. 


cal  impossibility?  Secondly,  we  are  the  vic- 
tims of  the  insanity  of  avarice.  How  long 
most  people  would  look  at  the  largest  turbot 
before  they  would  give  the  price  of  a  first  folio 
of  Shakspere  for  it !  We  venture  even  to  ask 
the  blessing  of  Heaven  on  lentil  soup  and  a 
slice  of  jam  pudding.  For  what  do  you  sup- 
pose is  the  cause  of  this  consuming  white  lep- 
rosy of  vegetarian  restaurants  which  has  broken 
out  all  over  our  fair  land?  Lentil  soup  is 
cheap,  and  for  that  reason  we  allow  it  to  take 
the  place  of  nobler  food.  Every  day  I  see  in 
your  streets  some  fresh  sign  of  this  insanity. 
I  see  men  go  forth  from  their  houses  and  pol- 
lute the  pure  morning  air  with  the  breath  of 
their  filthy  lungs,  when  that  same  breath  might 
be  sweetened  and  disinfected  with  the  aroma 
of  a  Villar  y  Villar.  Is  this  offense  against 
nature  excusable  on  any  plea  of  economy? 

Lastly.  You  are  influenced  by  fashion. 
There  is  no  need  of  words  of  mine  for  proof  of 
this.  I  will  say  nothing  of  fashion,  and  I  will 
not  chide  you.  I  know  that  you  are  weak,  and 
the  knowledge  saddens  me.  I  will  only  ask 


12  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

you  to  let  me  read  to  you  four  lines  of  true 
poetry : 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depths 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Aye,  and  even  to-night  it  may  be  that  this 
blessed  damosel  looks  down  upon  us  from 
heaven's  golden  bar.  Can  you  not  picture  the 
sorrow  that  must  be  in  her  eyes?  Can  you  be 
any  longer  content  that  your  meat-meals  shall 
be  as  the  lilies,  and  not  as  the  stars  in  number? 
Remember  this,  my  friends :  The  lilies  look  up 
to  the  stars. 

50.  What,  then,  shall  we  do?  I  have  now 
spoken  to  you  for  several  hours,  and  I  must 
bring  my  lecture  to  an  end.  I  have  drawn  my 
bow  at  a  venture ;  I  have  shot  my  arrow ;  I 
shall  find  it  after  many  days ;  not,  as  the  poet 
sings,  in  the  heart  of  an  oak,  but  in  the  root  of 
our  national  degradation.  That,  indeed,  is  one 
of  the  reasons  why  I  called  this  lecture  "Ar- 
rowroot." What  shall  we  do?  The  night  is 
here,  in  which  no  man  can  either  work  or  eat. 


OF  MR.  JOHN  RUSKIN.  13 

For  the  present,  my  friends,  our  holiest  act  will 
be  to  go  to  bed.  And  if,  as  you  lie  there  to- 
night, sleep  refuses  to  come  to  you,  take  refuge 
in  no  vile  drugs,  no  doctor's  narcotics.  Drink 
rather  of  the  pure  arrowroot ;  in  other  words, 
read  a  few  pages  of  this  lecture,  which  I  have 
had  printed  by  an  entirely  honest  man,  as  well 
as  he  can  do  it,  and  which  will  be  sold  for  a 
just  price  at  the  door  of  the  hall.  So  shall 
you  sleep  well. 

And  on  the  morrow  may  we  wake,  you  and 
I,  with  fresh  strength  and  a  better  appetite. 


III.— OF  MR.  R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 

CHRIS   AND   CHRISSIE. 

AT  this  my  uncle  raised  himself  slowly  from 
his  chair.  All  his  actions  were  slow  and  delib- 
erate, not  from  laziness  or  rheumatics,  from 
which  two  complaints  he  never  suffered,  but 
because  he  would  undertake  nothing  without 
due  care  and  forethought.  And  this  was  one 
of  the  reasons  why  he  was  so  respected  that 
his  opinion  was  constantly  being  asked  in  the 
village,  and  his  orchards  were  never  robbed 
except  in  unusually  good  seasons,  when  the 
fine  sense  of  the  Lonton  boys  pointed  out  to 
them  that  the  jargonelles  were  unduly  plentiful, 
and  should  be  thinned,  in  order  to  promote 
more  thankfulness  for  the  remainder. 

He  went  straight  to  the  little  corner  cup- 
board where  the  cigars  were  kept,  drew  his 
bunch  of  keys  with  the  yellow  labels  on  them 
from  his  pocket,  and  attempted  to  unlock  the 
14 


OF  MR.  R.  D.  BLACKMORE.  15 

door  with  the  key  of  the  little  toolhouse  that 
stood  at  the  south  end  of  the  garden  just 
where  the  Lonton  Brook  entered  our  land; 
being,  in  fact,  a  little  short-sighted,  but  unwill- 
ing to  acknowledge  the  fact,  from  humility, 
lest  he  should  be  credited  with  a  greater  age 
than  it  had  pleased  Providence  to  give  him. 
He  found  the  right  key  at  last,  and  got  the 
door  open.  There  were  two  boxes — one  of 
threepenny  and  one  of  sixpenny.  That,  at 
least,  was  the  way  he  distinguished  them,  hav- 
ing a  hearty  contempt  for  all  foreign  names 
and  fal-lals,  as  became  a  good  English  market- 
gardener  with  land  of  his  own  and  the  third 
best  pew  in  the  village  church.  Now  these 
cigars  were  a  luxury,  upon  the  purchase  of 
which  my  uncle  never  would  have  embarked 
knowingly ;  but  the  unforeseen  overtakes  us  in 
many  ways,  and  assuredly  it  had  overtaken  my 
uncle  in  the  matter  of  these  cigars.  His  head 
man,  Long  Jim,  had  showed  such  misplaced 
confidence  in  human  nature  as  to  send  bushel 
after  bushel  of  early  kidneys  up  to  the  "Green 
Lion  '  as  fast  as  the  landlord,  a  man  of  no  prin- 


1 6  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

ciple,  liked  to  order  them.  Now  it  was  well 
known  all  over  Lonton  that  the  "Green  Lion" 
was  in  a  failing  way,  the  beer  being  inferior 
and  the  house  standing  too  far  back  from  the 
coach  road.  At  any  rate,  as  no  money  was 
forthcoming,  my  uncle  had  been  compelled  to 
take  the  "Green  Lion's"  entire  stock  of  cigars 
instead;  and  though  it  grieved  him  at  the 
time,  he  found  them  useful  afterward  to  mark 
occasions. 

"Which  shall  it  be,  Chris;  threepenny  or 
sixpenny?"  he  said.  "Chris,  you're  a  good  lad, 
and  you're  going  to  marry  a  sensible  girl  with 
no  nonsense  about -her.  So  it  shall  be  a  six- 
penny. Chris,  my  boy,  you  shall  see  me  smoke 
a  sixpenny  in  honor  of  your  Chrissie." 

I  thanked  him  humbly,  feeling  quite  sure 
now  that  he  considered  it  a  great  occasion,  and 
one  of  which  he  approved.  For  the  sixpennies 
not  only  cost  twice  as  much  as  the  others,  but 
did  not  entirely  suit  him,  being  very  full  in 
flavor  and  (it  was  thought  by  those  who  had 
had  the  good  luck  to  try  them)  a  trifle  out  of 
condition.  I  made  a  paper  spill  and  lit  his 


OF  AIR.  R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 


cigar  for  him,  and  mixed  him  a  second  glass  of 
rum  and  water  without  saying  anything  about 
it.  He  did  not  seem  to  notice  what  I  had 
done,  but  he  sipped  it  cheerfully.  He  only 
allowed  himself  one  glass  every  night  ;  some- 
times I  took  upon  myself  to  mix  him  a  second, 
when  the  weather  had  been  wayward  and  he 
seemed  to  me  to  require  consolation.  He  al- 
ways chid  me  for  doing  it  ;  but,  being  a  sensi- 
ble man,  and  knowing  that  there  should  be  no 
bad  blood  between  near  relations,  he  would 
finally  forgive  me  and  drink  the  liquor;  for  he 
knew  that,  if  he  did  not  drink  it,  it  would  fall 
to  the  portion  of  our  old  servant  Martha,  and 
that  rum  and  water  was  too  high  feeding  for 
that  spirited  old  dame.  At  this  moment 
Martha  tapped  at  the  door  and  entered.  She 
told  us  that  Long  Jim  had  just  come  back  from 
Birstock,  that  he  had  put  up  the  cart  and  seen 
to  the  pony,  and  that  she  had  given  him  sup- 
per, as  ordered.  Further,  that  Long  Jim  had 
eaten  two  pounds  of  solid  beef,  but  had  not 
touched  the  undercut,  having  been  duly  in- 
structed that  the  undercut  was  not  for  the  likes 


1 8  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

of  him ;  that  he  had  drunk  therewith  three 
pints  of  the  second-best  ale ;  that  he  seemed  to 
have  something  on  his  mind,  and  had  hardly 
spoken ;  and  that  he  sent  his  respects  and 
compliments,  and  would  like  to  speak  to  Mas- 
ter Chris. 

"I  will  go  to  him,"  I  said,  starting  up. 

"No,  no,"  said  my  uncle,  with  a  natural  feel- 
ing that  Long  Jim  was  his  property,  and  had 
no  business  to  speak  at  all,  except  in  his  pres- 
ence and  after  encouragement ;  "show  him  in 
here/' 

Long  Jim's  real  name  was  James  Long,  but 
he  had  been  called  Long  Jim  from  his  great 
height.  He  was  a  thin,  dry,  humble,  dejected 
man.  He  had  a  large  family  and  worked  hard 
for  it;  and  was  treated  with  a  good  deal  of 
loving  contempt  by  his  busy  little  wife.  He 
came  shambling  into  the  room  with  his  hat  in 
one  hand,  and  gazed  sheepishly  first  at  my 
uncle  and  then  at  myself. 

"You  may  sit  down,  James  Long,"  said  my 
uncle,  "and  tell  me  what  you  have  to  say." 

He  seated  himself  awkwardly.     "There  be  a 


OF  MR.  R.  D.  BLACKMORE.  19 

wise  woman  come  to  Birstock,  and  she  do  say 
that  there  be  rain  more'n  enow  to  fall  next 
Lord's  Day,  an'  it  seemeth." 

"Jim,"  I  struck  in,  for  I  could  see  his  man- 
ner, "you're  lying.  Tell  us  the  truth,  and 
don't  shirk  it." 

"Miss  Chrissie  Greenhouse  hath  left  her 
home,  an'  no  man  knovveth  where  she  be — no, 
not  one  on  'em ;  nor  why  she  hath  done  it." 

I  do  not  quite  know  what  happened  next. 
My  uncle  shaded  his  eyes  with  one  hand,  as  if 
the  glare  of  the  candles  hurt  them.  I  felt  that 
I  must  do  something  or  die;  so  I  drank  my 
uncle's  rum  and  water.  I  could  hear  poor  Jim 
blubbering.  My  uncle  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"James  Long,  be  quiet."  I  never  before 
had  seen  my  uncle  look  so  brave  and  noble  as 
he  did  then.  "Where  are  we?" 

"In  the  first  vollum,"  sobbed  Jim. 

"Then  we  must  at  once  get  on  a  false  scent, 
and,  to  do  that,  we  must  have  a  detective. 
We  must  keep  on  with  the  false  scent  all 
through  the  second  volume,  and  find  the  right 
trail  about  the  beginning  of  the  third.  Bear 


20  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

up,  Chris,  my  boy ;  we're  all  right,  because 
we're  in  a  novel.  Have  a  cigar.  Have  a  six — 
I  mean,  have  a  threepenny  cigar." 

It  was  my  first  cigar.  While  I  smoked  it, 
we  discussed  our  plans. 

"George  Bradby  is  at  the  bottom  of  this,"  I 
said.  My  uncle  slapped  his  knee.  "You're 
right,  Chris.  Of  course,  he  isn't  really,"  he 
added  in  a  whisper,  "but  we  must  keep  it  up." 

"Else  there'll  be  no  second  vollum,"  said 
Jim  sadly. 


IV.— OF  MR.  WALTER  PATER. 

MARIUS   AT   SLOANE   STREET. 

ABOVE  all,  there  was  at  this  time  a  desire 
abroad  to  attain  that  which  was  best.  It  had 
spread  over  the  country  like  a  great  wave ;  its 
furthest  ripple  reaching  even  to  the  lower  and 
more  common  minds,  and  awakening  in  them 
an  intelligent  seriousness,  a  newer  and  brighter 
perception  of  their  own  immediate  good,  and 
the  will  to  secure  it  at  any  cost  to  others.  It 
seemed,  as  it  were,  a  stray  fragrance  from  the 
old  school  of  Cyrene,  blown  by  some  petulant 
wind  down  the  ages,  and  lighting  at  last  upon 
this  weary,  overwrought  civilization.  At  least, 
this  lucent,  flame-like  devotion  to  self-  this 
strenuous,  almost  feverish,  worship  of  the  Ego 
—was  there,  vividly  present  among  men,  and 
like  to  some  new  religion  in  its  animating 
power.  And  if  upon  its  high  altar  the  happi- 
ness of  others  had  to  be  sacrificed  to  personal 


22  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

and  individual  ends,  that  sacrifice  was  ever 
made — as,  indeed,  all  such  must  be  made — in 
perfect  simplicity  and  hopefulness.  There  was 
no  tetchy  fretful  complaining.  The  individual 
and  his  ideal  being  one,  his  holiest  act  was  to 
please  himself.  All  that  was  lost,  with  that 
purpose,  was  well  lost ;  the  highest  and  purest 
form  of  asceticism  was  the  utter  devotion  to  self. 

Marius — susceptible,  as  he  had  ever  been,  to 
all  sweet  influences — found  himself  strangely 
dominated  by  the  beauty  of  this  new  spirit. 
Standing  at  the  corner  of  the  old  Via  Sloancn- 
si's,  he  felt  almost  faint  with  the  longing  to  do 
something — a  little  thing,  perhaps,  but  still 
something — to  show  how  he  loved  himself. 
The  public  vehicles — snow  white  or  scarlet, 
sapphire  or  peach  color — passed  before  him  in 
gorgeous  procession  from  the  distant  circus. 
To  him — as,  indeed,  to  others — each  color  had 
an  inner  meaning,  and  was  not  only  decorative. 
It  was  an  appeal,  a  voice  that  called : 

"Come  into  us.  Be  part  of  us.  Come  to 
the  dreamy  South  or  to  the  burning  West. 
Come  all  the  way,  all  the  way !" 


OF  MR.    WALTER  PATER.  23 

The  afternoon  had  been  broken  by  showers, 
the  wind  only  half  drying  the  pavement  before 
another  torrent  came;  and  Marius  noted  the 
ardent  and  special  apprehension  of  the  subsellia 
interiora  of  these  vehicles,  and  the  musical 
chant  of  Plenum  intra!  Plenum  intra!  Yes, 
even  in  this  crowd  of  quite  ordinary  and  com- 
mon people,  the  new  spirit  was  showing  itself. 
The  renunciation  of  others  for  self,  that  true 
sacrifice,  was  made  again  and  again,  willingly 
and  cheerfully,  each  time  that  one  of  these 
public  vehicles  stopped. 

A  chance  gave  Marius  his  opportunity,  and 
he  at  once  decided  to  take  it.  "I  am  going 
from  this  wet  weariness,"  he  said  to  Cornelius, 
who  stood  by  his  side.  "In  yonder  vehicle 
there  is  room  for  one  only  ;  I  shall  be  that  one ; 
and  you,  dear  friend,  will  wait  for  the  next." 

Without  another  word  he  pushed  his  way 
through  the  throng.  Never  had  he  been  more 
conscious  of  his  strength,  his  great,  fiery  man- 
hood. Carelessly  enough  he  flung  from  the 
step  of  the  vehicle  some  daughter  of  the  peo- 
ple who  would  have  anticipated  him.  He  had 


24  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

not  noticed  that  she  was  not  alone.  After- 
ward he  could  remember  but  little  of  what 
next  happened.  His  capacity  for  receiving 
exquisite  physical  impressions  seemed  sud- 
denly satiated  by  some  intense  experience. 
He  was  only  conscious  of  quick  movement ; 
and  then  he  knew  that  he  had  seated  himself 
in  the  road,  and  that  the  people  were  crowding 
about  him.  For  a  few  seconds  he  seemed  to 
be  living  too  quickly,  too  keenly. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  gasped,  with  a 
look  of  mad  appeal. 

"You  have  been  kicked,"  said  Cornelius 
simply,  as  he  helped  him  to  his  feet. 

"Ah  !"  He  limped  away  with  the  young  sol- 
dier. "I  have  indeed  been  kicked,"  he  said 
very  slowly.  Then,  as  the  fullness  and  sharp- 
ness of  the  sensation  became  more  convincing, 
he  burst  out:  "Vixi!  Vixi !  And  where  is 
the  nearest  temple  of  ^Esculapius?" 


V.— OF  COUNT  LYOF  N.  TOLSTOI. 

UONOVITCH'S  CONFESSION  (SHOCKINGLY 
TRANSLATED). 

DONOVITCH  uttered  two  sighs,  and  for  some 
time  remained  silent.  His  face  had  become 
longer,  and  there  was  more  of  his  mouth.  His 
ears  twitched.  It  was  frightful.  Two  passen- 
gers, who  had  been  going  on  to  Liverpool 
Street,  got  out  at  Charing  Cross.  I  think  they 
said  that  they  would  go  on  by  the  next  'bus. 
One  of  them  was  a  young  woman ;  she  wore  a 
green  hat.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story 
or  anything  else,  and  that  is  why  I  mention  it. 
I  am  a  Russian  realist,  and  in  a  fair  way  of 
business.  Admire,  and  pass  on. 

"Music  is  an  awful  thing,"  he  went  on  at 
last.  "What  is  it?  Why  does  it  do  what  it 
does?  What  is  there  in  his  wife's  musical 
evening  that  makes  the  husband  to  be  de- 
tained on  business?  Answer  me  that.  You 


26  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

cannot?  I  will  tell  you,  because  I  know. 
People  say  that  music  causes  ennui — that  it 
bores;  also,  that  it  occasionally  distracts. 
Lies,  lies,  lies — all  lies!  It  elevates  the  soul. 
That  is  why  music  is  so  dangerous  and  acts  at 
times  in  so  peculiar  a  manner.  If  one's  soul  is 
elevated  too  far — how  am  I  to  express  myself? 
— if  one's  soul  passes  out  of  one's  reach,  one 
has  to  get  along  without  it  until  it  comes 
down  again. 

"On.  that  particular  morning  it  was  bright 
and  sunny.  I  felt  light,  but  prescient ;  I  knew 
that  the  Italian  would  come  again,  and  that 
something  would  happen.  I  want  you  to  see 
that  I  was  not  entirely  myself  even  before  the 
Italian  came.  New  feelings,  new  qualities  sud- 
denly declared  themselves  within  me.  What 
was  I  experiencing?  Dyspepsia?  I  cannot 
say.  The  Italian  came  at  eleven  o'clock.  I 
hated  him — hated  his  black  hair  and  coarse 
face — hated  the  mechanical  piano  with  the 
green  baize  covering  —  hated  the  immoral 
monkey  which  sat  on  the  top.  I  would  not 
let  them  see  that  I  hated  them.  I  was  too 


OF  COUNT  LYOF  N.    TOLSTOI.  27 

proud  for  that,  but  my  heart  swelled.  It  was 
very  painful,  but  I  kept  quiet.  I  was  deter- 
mined to  be  perfectly  natural ;  so  I  went  to 
the  sideboard  and  drank  a  glass  of  vodka. 
Then  I  lit  a  cigarette ;  I  thought  that  it  would 
deaden  the  feeling.  I  said  to  my  soul :  'Soul, 
don't  move.  Stop  where  you  are.  Refuse 
to  be  elevated.'  Yet  I  must  confess  that 
directly  he  began  to  play  'See-saw,'  I  felt  my 
control  over  myself  lapsing  from  me.  I  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  at  the  Italian.  I 
can  see  him  now — a  man  in  robust  health,  well 
nourished,  with  horrible  red  lips,  turning  a 
handle.  Do  you  know  'See-saw'?  They  al- 
ways play  it  at  the  circus  when  the  two  per- 
forming dogs  are  fooling  about  at  opposite 
ends  of  a  plank.  Every  bar  sends  the  soul  up 
with  a  jerk;  you  will  not  believe  me.  But 
there  is  a  point  at  which  one  positively  wishes 
the  music  to  stop.  With  me,  that  point  was 
reached  very  soon.  I  flung  open  the  window, 
and  said  distinctly :  'Go  away.  Go  quite 
away,  and  leave  my  soul  alone,  can't  you?'  I 
do  not  think  the  Italian  understood.  His 


28  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

monkey  grinned.  Oh,  why  did  it  grin?  It 
ought  not  to  have  grinned.  It  is  immoral  to 
grin.  In  China  monkeys  are  only  allowed  to 
grin  on  important  occasions.  Here  they  do  it 
in  the  open  street,  with  young  girls  passing 
every  minute.  Do  let  us  be  moral !  Have 
you  never  thought  what  the  effect  must  be  on 
the  cab  horses?  The  Italian  changed  his  tune. 
It  was  a  florid  arrangement  of  a  music-hall 
song — I  forget  by  what  composer.  I  turned 
back  into  the  room  and  flung  myself  on  a  sofa. 
I  sobbed,  but  I  do  not  know  why.  Then  I 
put  on  my  boots,  and  smoked  two  cigarettes 
at  once,  to  deaden  the  feeling.  I  may  tell  you 
that  I  knew  very  well  now  what  I  was  going 
to  do;  it  was  all  planned  in  my  mind  just  as  it 
actually  happened.  Yet,  if  he  had  stopped 
playing  at  that  moment  all  might  have  been 
well.  He  did  not  stop ;  he  began  to  play 
'Annie  Rooney.' 

"I  crept  with  soft,  wolf-like  steps  into  the 
hall.  I  took  from  the  umbrella-stand  a  slightly 
curved  Damascus  blade  which  had  never  been 
used,  and  which  was  extremely  sharp.  It  had 


OF  COUNT  LYOF  N.    TOLSTOI.  29 

been  intended  for  the  water  rate,  but  now  I 
had  another  use  for  it.  Then  I  put  on  my  hat 
and  went  out.  I  do  not  remember  how  I  got 
out  of  the  front  door  and  into  the  street.  I 
cannot  say  how  I  moved,  whether  I  walked  or 
ran.  I  remember  nothing  of  all  that.  I  re- 
member only  the  expression  of  the  Italian's 
face  as  I  stepped  toward  him,  holding  the  dag- 
ger behind  me.  It  was  an  expression  of  terror 
— absolute,  abject  terror.  I  was  glad  to  see  it. 
The  monkey  looked  annoyed,  and  darted  a 
quick  look  of  interrogation  at  his  master. 
Suddenly  the  Italian  smiled,  and  assuming  an 
air  of  indifference  so  false  as  to  be  ludicrous, 
said :  'We  was  giving  you  a  little  music.' 

"He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  I  felt  the 
need  of  giving  free  course  to  my  rage.  With 
a  sudden  cry  I  flung  myself  upon  him.  I 
must  have  frightened  him  dreadfully,  for  he 
became  as  white  as  a  sheet ;  he  ran  away,  ac- 
companied by  the  monkey. 

"You  are  poltroons,  poltroons!'  I  shouted 
after  them.  I  did  not  care  much,  because  the 
mechanical  piano  was  there.  I  took  it  by  the 


3°  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 


handle  with  both  hands,  and  shook  it  convul- 
sively. The  contact  was  repulsive,  but  I  felt 
driven  to  it.  It  shrieked  terribly.  Then  I  felt 
that  this  was  not  enough ;  it  did  not  satisfy 
me.  I  raised  my  dagger,  and  struck  it  twice 
in  the  'Annie  Rooney,'  section.  It  never 
struggled.  There  was  a  jet  of  warm  arpeggios, 
and  then  it  was  still.  I  crept  back  again  to 
the  house,  and  smoked  some  more  cigarettes. 
Then  I  went  to  sleep.  I  slept  for  two  days." 

Donovitch  ceased,  and  buried  his  head  in 
his  hands. 

"This  is  Liverpool  Street,"  I  remarked. 

He  rose  hurriedly,  to  descend  from  the  'bus, 
tumbled  down' the  flight  of  steps,  and  broke 
his  silly  neck. 

I  am  a  respectable  Russian  realist,  but  I  was 
glad. 


THE  HUNDRED  GATES. 


THE  HUNDRED  GATES. 

A   DREAM   OF   BAD   BOOKS. 

MY  friend  Timson,  of  the  Psychical  Society, 
is  peculiarly  successful  in  the  matter  of 
dreams.  For  years  they  have  gone  on  in  an 
ascending  ratio ;  each  one  is  more  vivid  than 
the  last,  and  fulfilled  in  more  detail.  There 
are  some  people  who  consider  that  Timson 
overdoes  it  a  little,  that  he  rides  his  nightmares 
too  hard.  Tastes  differ  as  to  the  proportion 
of  untrustworthy  narrative  which  a  man  may 
introduce  about  himself  into  the  general  con- 
versation ;  and  when  a  man  has  three  distinct 
dreams  in  one  night,  and  relates  them  all  at 
one  dinner  on  the  following  evening,  he  does 
lay  himself  open  to  a  certain  amount  of  criti- 
cism. But  Timson  is  no  ordinary  man.  and 
cannot  be  judged  by  ordinary  standards.  He 
lives  in  a  haunted  house,  his  wife  is  a  medium, 
and  he  numbers  among  his  intimate  acquaint- 
ance several  fascinating  people  who  have  posi- 


34  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

tively  seen  with  their  bodily  eyes  things  un- 
speakable. His  extensive  leisure  is  spent 
entirely  in  researches  of  the  deepest  and  most 
psychical  character,  and  though  you  may  be 
thankless  enough  to  find  him  a  little  weari- 
some, you  must  at  least  own  that  he  is  an 
authority  in  his  special  subject.  In  fact,  what 
Timson  does  not  know,  or  think  he  knows, 
about  the  unseen  world  is  hardly  worth  the 
knowing. 

Yet  when,  a  few  months  ago,  I  told  Timson 
a  dream  from  which  I  had  recently  suffered, 
he  proved  most  unsatisfactory.  I  related  it  to 
him  partly  to  repay  him  for  the  many  wicked 
falsehoods  he  must  have  told  me  at  different 
times  about  himself,  but  chiefly  because  I 
thought  that  Timson's  great  knowledge  of  this 
subject  would  enable  him  to  give  me  some  ex- 
planation and  advice.  In  the  latter  point  I 
was  wrong.  Timson  is  an  exponent  of  the  sci- 
entific method  which  does  not  explain  but 
classifies.  In  my  case  he  refused  even  to  clas- 
sify definitely.  I  could  get  little  from  him  ex- 
cept some  criticism  on  parts  of  my  story.  I 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  35 

may  possibly  have  offended  him  by  something 
in  my  manner  which  he  mistook  for  levity,  but 
it  appeared  that  the  fatal  objection  was  that 
my  dream  had  not  come  true,  and  never  could 
come  true,  and  was  therefore  not  worth  con- 
sideration. Now,  although  admitting  the  fact, 
I  took  exception  to  his  deductions  from  it.  I 
pointed  out  to  him  that  I  was  only  a  beginner, 
and  that  if  I  were  encouraged  I  should  soon 
acquire  the  right  knack;  that,  besides,  a  dream 
which  did  not  come  true  must  be  more  start- 
ling to  him  than  the  other  kind.  But  my  argu- 
ments were  of  no  use ;  he  positively  refused  to 
classify  my  story  in  its  present  incomplete  con- 
dition,  although  he  owned  that  if  it  ever  did 
come  true  it  would  rank  as  an  aggravated  case 
of  inverted  telepathy.  I  do  hope  it  is  not 
going  to  be  as  bad  as  that,  and  I  told  Timson 
so.  I  feel  that  I  could  not  bear  it.  I  en- 
treated him  to  tell  me  if  he  thought  that  a  few 
weeks  at  the  seaside,  or  riding  exercise,  or  a 
generous  diet,  would  do  anything  to  avert  dis- 
aster. But  at  this  point  the  oracle  had  the 
misfortune  to  lose  its  temper,  and  insisted  that 


$6  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

I  was  not  being  serious  with  it.  So  I  obtained 
no  further  information. 

In  laying  my  dream  before  the  unscientific 
public  I  must  request  them  not  to  fall  into 
Timson's  error  of  imagining  that  I  would  trifle 
with  them.  1  account  for  it  myself  in  this  way. 
A  month  before,  I  had  been  confined  to  my 
room  for  several  days  with  a  sprained  ankle, 
and  during  that  period  I  had  been  supplied  by 
my  [friends  with  light  literature.  I  dare  say 
they  meant  it  well,  but  if  I  should  ever  again 
be  afflicted  with  a  sprained  ankle,  I  will  either 
take  it  plain,  or  I  will  choose  the  light  litera- 
ture myself. 

The  first  distinct  sensation  that  occurred  to 
me  after  falling  asleep  was  that  I  had  started  to 
take  a  nice  long  walk  in  the  country.  I  had 
passed  through  Putney,  across  Wimbledon 
Common,  and  into  a  shady  lane,  and  I  was 
feeling  duller  and  duller  with  every  step  that 
took  me  further  from  London  and  civilization. 
I  am  always  sorry  for  the  poor  people  who  live 
all  the  year  round  in  the  country.  How  many 
poor  children  there  must  be  amid  our  rustic 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  37 

lanes  and  hedgerows  who  will  pass  their  whole 
lives  without  ever  having  seen  the  interior  of 
an  omnibus  or  the  exterior  of  a  sandwich  man! 
While  I  was  occupied  with  such  sad  thoughts, 
I  was  suddenly  surprised  by  seeing  before  me 
a  large  square  field,  the  sides  of  which  were 
composed  almost  entirely  .  of  wooden  gates, 
there  being  only  a  yard  or  two  of  low  hedge  in 
between  each.  One  of  these  gates  was  rather 
higher  than  the  rest,  and  seemed  to  form  the 
principal  entrance.  This  was  unoccupied,  but 
on  each  of  the  others  there  was  one  person 
seated.  I  stood  still  and  counted  them. 
There  were  a  hundred  gates  in  all,  twenty-five 
on  each  side.  For  some  moments  I  hesitated. 
Curiosity  advised  me  to  inquire  the  reason  for 
this  phenomenon.  It  would  be  absurd  to  sup- 
pose that  a  field  would  wantonly  have  a  hun- 
dred gates  with  ninety-nine  of  them  occupied, 
unless  there  was  some  good  reason  for  it. 
Dignity,  on  the  other  hand,  urged  that  it  was 
beneath  me  to  show  the  least  interest  in  any- 
thing except  myself.  As  a  rule  I  obey  the 
voice  of  Dignity,  but  on  this  occasion  Curiosity 


38  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

prevailed,  and    I    stepped    up    to  the   nearest 
gate. 

On  the  gate  a  man  of  middle  age  was  seated, 
of  striking  appearace.  He  wore  a  pointed 
beard,  and  he  was  unusually  handsome.  His 
figure  was  athletic  and  graceful.  It  is  always 
difficult  to  remember  what  anyone  wears,  but 
he  left  in  my  mind  a  general  impression  of  ex- 
pensive fur,  diamond  sleeve-links,  and  great 
glossiness  of  boot.  Raising  my  hat,  I  apolo- 
gized for  troubling  him,  and  asked  if  he  could 
give  me  any  information.  He  looked  up,  and 
threw  away  the  cigar  which  he  was  smoking. 
In  a  languid  voice  he  answered,  "We  are  stock 
characters — out  of  books,  you  know — and  we're 
turned  out  to  grass  for  the  present,  and  that's 
why  we  sit  on  gates.  Fatiguing  weather,  is  it 
not?"  He  paused  to  light  another  cigar. 
"Take  my  own  case,  for  instance." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said;  "I  don't  smoke." 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  remark,  and  I  see 

now  that  I  must  have  misunderstood  him.     "I 

am  a  hero,"  he  continued,  "the  ideal  man  as 

imagined  by  the  idealess  woman.     I  have  been 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES  39 

wonderfully  popular  in  my  time.  At  present 
I  sit  here  and  practice  the  leading  traits  in  my 
character — my  consumption  of  cigars,  for  in- 
stance." He  flung  away  the  one  he  was  smoking 
and  carefully  selected  another.  He  sniffed  at 
it  gently,  smiled,  and  dropped  it  into  the  ditch. 

"I  recognize  you,  sir,"  I  said.  "In  most  of 
the  ladies'  novels  I  think  it  is  stated  that  you 
were  educated  at  Cambridge  or  Oxford?" 

"Good  old  Cambridge  College!"  he  inter- 
polated. 

"Some  of  the  books  have  given  details,"  I 
went  on. 

"Oh,  details!"  he  interrupted,  "I  should 
think  they  did.  I  rowed  in  the  May  sixes 
shortly  after  I'd  taken  my  Fellowship  at  King's. 
The  fellows  there  eat  ham  pie  and  drink  seltzer 
and  hock.  Such  times!  Learned  men  they 
are,  too,  but  cynical — very  cynical.  I  remem- 
ber when  the  old  Regius  Professor  was  coaching 
me  for  my  Smalls — in  which  I  took  a  Special, 
sir,  without  work — he  turned  to  me  and  said, 
with  a  bitter  laugh:  'My  motto's  Pro  ego,  sir; 
Pro  ego — pass  the  audit.'  Splendid  man  he 


40  PLAYTHINGS  AXD  PARODIES. 

was,  but  always  drunk!  The  enthusiasm  he 
could  awake  in  the  young  was  wonderful. 
When  he  was  raised  to  a  Bishopric  they  accom- 
panied him  to  the  station,  shouting  after  his  cab 
in  the  words  of  the  ten  thousand  under  Insan- 
ias:  'Thalassis!  Thalassis!  the  See !  the  See !'  " 

The  excitement  of  recalling  old  times  was 
too  much  for  him,  and  he  tumbled  off  his  gate. 
He  lay  on  his  back,  murmuring  faintly,  "Egus, 
ege,  egum,  egi,  ego,  ego."  I  have  no  conception 
what  he  meant,  and  after  picking  him  up  and 
putting  him  on  his  perch  again,  I  ventured  to 
ask  for  a  free  translation. 

Before  replying,  he  lighted  and  immediately 
threw  away  another  cigar.  "Ah !"  he  said 
pityingly,  "you  never  had  a  classical  education, 
you  never  were  at  Eton  school.  But  you  asked 
me,  I  believe,  for  a  short  sketch  of  my  subse- 
quent career.  In  after-life  I  frequently  enter 
the  army.  She  had  refused  me,  you  know,  and 
my  heart  was  broken.  I  did  not  know  then,  as 
I  know  now,  that  her  only  motive  was  that  it 
would  have  cut  the  book  short  in  the  second 
volume  if  she  had  accepted  me.  They  found 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  41 

my  horse  next  morning  in  the  stable,  covered 
with  foam  from  head  to  foot." 

"Poor  old  stable  !"  I  sighed  sympathetically. 

"All  night  long,"  he  continued,  "I  had  been 

riding  in  the  old  desperate  dare-devil  way 

Can  you  go  on?" 

"I  can,"  I  replied.  "The  noble  animal 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  reckless  untamed 
spirit  of  its  rider.  Over  the  black  moorland  and 
through  the  flooded  river  you  sped  together  in 
that  fearful  ride.  With  the  first  glimmerings 
of  dawn  your  resolution  was  taken,  for  your 
life  was  valueless." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "you've  left  out  a 
page  or  two,  but  it  will  do.  I  entered  the  army 
in  order  to  die  on  the  battlefield.  She  natu- 
rally became  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  and  found  me 
delirious  in  the  hospital.  She  nursed  me  night 
and  day,  moved  softly  about,  pressed  cooling 
drinks  to  my  burning  forehead — and  all  that 
kind  of  thing,  you  know.  The  doctor  gener- 
ally remarks  that  it  is  the  nurse,  and  not  the 
doctor  that  is  to  be  complimented  on  my 
recovery." 


42  PLA  YTHINGS  AND   PARODIES. 

"It  is  too  true,"  I  answered.  "But  you  are 
not  always  in  the  army." 

"Oh,  no;  but,  wherever  I  am,  I  have  much 
the  same  peculiarities.  Wealth  is  one  of  them  ; 
hence  an  almost  painful  profusion  of  cigars. 
My  strong  emotions  are  another.  I  frequently 
push  away  my  plate  untasted,  owing  to  strong 
emotions;  my  emotions  are  nothing  if  they're 
not  strong.  Just  see  me  smother  an  oath  in 
my  beard." 

"Don't  trouble,"  I  said,  "if  it  hurts  at  all." 

"Well,  I  have  a  small  beard,  and  I  take  a 
large  size  in  oaths;  but  I  do  want  you  to  un- 
derstand that  my  emotions  are  strong,  and  take 
a  great  deal  of  repression.  At  such  times  I 
generally  crush  my  heel  into  something,  or 
gnaw  my  teeth  or  mustache,  or  curse  a  menial. 
You  see  that  heel.  It's  been  ground  into  the 
maple-wood  flooring,  into  the  rich  tiger  skin  on 
the  carpet,  into  the  wet  sand  of  the  seashore, 
into  the  fragrant  violets,  into  almost  every- 
thing into  which  a  heel  can  be  ground." 

"And  yet,"  I  suggested,  "you  have  your 
moments  of  repose." 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  43 


"True,"  he  replied,  "but  you  see  nothing  of 
my  heel  then.  I  am  not  a  Panpharmakon." 
This  was  another  touch  of  the  classics  which  was 
lost  upon  me.  "On  these  occasions  my  accesso- 
ries are  more  important  even  than  myself;  fault- 
less evening  dress,  silken  cushions,  perfumed 
lamps,  for  instance.  I  merely  sit  there  lazily 
peeling  a  peach — peaches  are  an  expensive  fruit, 
aren't  they?  or  curling  a  loose  leaf  round  my 
Manilla  cheroot.  A  tame  Circassian  brings  me 
a  cup  of  Mocha  coffee  delicately  flavored  with 
kirschwasser.  There's  an  Oriental  tinge  about 
it." 

"And  now,"  I  asked,  "can  you  tell  me  why 
all  you  people  are  sitting  on  gates?" 

Flinging  a  handful  of  gold  into  my  face,  to 
show  his  profusion,  he  replied  : 

"Because  those  who  use  us  have  no  style; 
so  we're  compelled  to  sit  on  gates." 

"But,"  I  urged,  "the  critics  are  always  sitting 
on  the  style  of  those  authors." 

"Indeed!"  he  returned  contemptuously; 
"then  how  do  you  account  for  the  critic  on  the 
hearth?  But  I  will  bandy  no  more  words  with 


44  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

you.  Go  and  see  my  brother  Jack  on  the  next 
gate.  He  isn't  rich,  but  he's  burly,  and  ath- 
letic, and  English.  In  some  respects  he's  like 
me,  and  he's  always  in  love." 

I  turned  away  without  any  intention  of  vis- 
iting Jack.  I  felt  certain  that  Jack  would  prob- 
ably request  me  to  have  a  few  words  with  some 
intimate  friend  of  his  on  the  gate  next  to  him, 
and  that  I  should  be  finally  compelled  to  inter- 
view the  whole  of  those  ninety-nine  individuals 
who  were  pining  for  someone  to  bore.  I  might 
possibly  have  a  little  conversation  with  some 
of  them,  but  certainly  not  with  all ;  and  I  was 
determined  not  to  include  Jack  in  my  selec- 
tion. However,  as  I  passed  his  gate,  he  called 
to  me: 

"Stop  a  moment,  sir.  I  am  still  as  big,  sim- 
ple, light-hearted,  frank,  buoyant,  and  boyish 
as  ever.  You  really  ought  to  know  me." 

"I  know  you  only  too  well,"  I  replied  bru- 
tally; "and  you  don't  interest  me." 

"What!"  he  cried,  "not  interested  in  poor 
Jack,  no  one's  enemy  but  his  own,  with  an  arm 
as  white  as  a  duchess's,  and  corded  like  a  black- 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  45 

smith's!  You  must  be  joking.  Why,  sir,  I  was 
playing  football  for  England  v.  Wales  the  other 
day — a  hot  afternoon  in  June  it  was.  I  was 
half-forward,  and  we  were  being  beaten,  when 
I  looked  up  and  saw  J:hat  the  dear  girl  was 
watching  us.  It  seemed  to  put  new  strength 
into  me.  I  set  my  teeth  hard,  and  with  a  cry 
of  'Julia!'  plunged  into  the  scrimmage,  secured 
the  ball,  and  bore  it  off  in  triumph  to  our  own 
goal.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"Tell  me  honestly,"  I  said,  "are  you  often 
as  far  gone  as  this?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,"  he  answered,  "that  the 
public  seem  to  have  lost  their  taste  for  me  in 
quite  so  strong  a  form.  But  I  still  exist.  I 
still  preach  the  great  gospel  of  manliness." 

"What  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"Be  strong.  Knock  your  neighbor  down, 
and  love  him  as  yourself." 

I  noticed  with  considerable  satisfaction  that 
the  apostle  of  manliness  was  secured  to  his 
gate  by  a  short  iron  chain,  so  I  took  this  oppor- 
tunity of  expressing  my  opinion  of  him.  "I 
regret,"  I  said,  "that  I  must  repeat  my  asser- 


46  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

tion  that  I  am  not  interested  in  you.  You 
have  been  done  well,  but  of  late  years  you  have 
been  overdone.  I  do  not  think  much  of  your 
gospel,  because  I  do  not  believe  that  the  high- 
est form  of  manhood  is  the  affectionate  bargee. 
I  have  also  noticed  some  defects  in  your  char- 
acter. Your  great  point  is  your  pluckiness; 
and  yet  you  are  not  plucky.  As  you  always 
knock  your  man  down  it  stands  to  reason  that 
you  never  attack  anyone  who  is  superior  to 
yourself.  You  are  constantly  standing  up  for 
the  right,  but  your  method  is  so  abominably 
dull  and  monotonous  that  you  make  the  wrong 
seem  preferable.  When  you  were  treated  idi- 
otically, I  was  amused  at  you ;  when  you  fell 
into  better  hands,  I  liked  you ;  at  the  present 
moment  I  am  exceedingly  weary  of  you,  sorry 
to  have  met  you,  and  trust  I  shall  never  see 
you  again.  Good-morning." 

His  only  answer,  as  I  moved  away,  was  a 
long,  low  whistle.  This  is  the  way  in  which 
he  habitually  expresses  surprise. 

I  had  been  so  disappointed  with  the  two 
characters  I  had  already  seen  that  I  thought  I 


THE  HUNDRED  GATES.  .         47 

would  interview  one  or  two  of  the  opposite 
sex,  and  then  go  home.  But  I  had  not  passed 
many  gates  before  the  occupant  of  one  of 
them  called  out  to  me  a  little  snappishly : 

"Why  don't  you  laugh?" 

I  turned  round  and  saw  before  me  a  man  of 
middle  age,  with  sandy  hair,  and  a  pale  green 
face.  He  was  dressed  as  a  city  clerk,  but  with- 
out a  hat,  and  he  was  smoking  a  new  clay  pipe. 

"Why  don't  you  laugh?"  he  repeated. 

"Why  should  I?"  I  asked. 

"Why  should  you?  Well,  sir,  I'm  the  lead- 
ing character  of  English  comic  verse,  and  I've 
just  sat  down  on  a  new  silk  hat.  I  don't  know 
what  else  you  want.  You  must  have  heard  it 
go  pop,  but  there's  no  pleasing  some  people. 
Perhaps  you  didn't  know  my  name  was  Jin- 
kins.  As  a  general  rule,  I've  only  just  got  to 
mention  that,  and  then  the  smile  begins  to 
slowly  spread  itself.  It's  a  curious  fact  how 
truly  humorous  all  names  are  which  end  in  -kins. 
There's  nothing  particular  about  the  name  Tom, 
but  Tompkins  is  really  funny.  Jinkins  is  still 
funnier.  Look  here,  you're  not  laughing!" 


48  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

I  felt  too  depressed  to  be  rude  to  the  man. 
Even  as  he  spoke,  the  sun,  which  had  been  shin- 
ing brightly,  went  in  and  the  wind  changed  to 
due  east.  The  air  seemed  to  be  heavily 
charged  with  flat  soda  water  and  the  back 
numbers  of  a  dead  comic  paper.  When  I  told 
the  dream  to  Timson  he  flatly  denied  that 
such  an  atmosphere  was  possible,  even  in 
dreams.  But  I  experienced  it,  and  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  know. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  I  said,  "but  I  do  not 
fancy  that  I  shall  ever  smile  again." 

"But  you  haven't  heard  all,"  he  replied,  with 
a  kind  of  desperation.  "There's  this  pipe. 
Now  I'm  not  used  to  smoking,  so  I  shall  be 
sick.  Sometimes  I  travel  on  a  steamer,  and 
that  makes  me  sick.  It  doesn't  seem  to  matter 
much  as  long  as  I  am  sick.  That's  what  Eng- 
land really  wants.  It's  popular  with  all  classes, 
but  you're  too  dense  to  see  it.  Sometimes  I  go 
home  drunk  late  at  night,  or  I  drop  the  baby,  or 
I'm  thrown  off  a  horse,  or  I  have  a  painful  im- 
pediment in  my  speech.  Curates  recite  me  at 
penny  readings,  because  there's  no  vulgarity 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  49 

about  me.  And,  as  I  said  before,  my  name's 
Jinkins." 

This  finished  me.  I  felt  at  once  that  I  could 
interview  no  more  characters,  and  that  my  best 
course  was  to  go  home  at  once,  and  go  to  bed, 
and  stop  there.  I  felt  prostrated  by  humiliation 
and  agonizing  dullness.  But  it  was  not  to  be. 

"You  don't  look  very  cheerful,"  the  brute  re- 
marked, "and  yet  I'm  sure  I've  done  my  best. 
But  do  go  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  field. 
You'll  find  my  wife  there.  I'm  compelled  by  the 
tradition  of  men  to  speak  of  her  as  the  'missus.' 
What  a  fine  old  girl  she  is !  She  will  probably 
commence  conversation  by  saying,  'Drat  the 
man !  or  'Like  his  imperence !'  But  both  are 
funny.  It's  a  light  and  tasty  style  that  I 
should  think  would  just  suit  a  man  like  you. 
Do  promise  me  to  go  and  see  her.  She's  cer- 
tain to  cheer  you  up." 

"I  positively  refuse  to  see  your  wife.  I  am 
going  home." 

But  even  as  I  spoke  the  field  began  to  turn 
gently  round,  while  the  lane  in  which  I  stood  re- 
mained perfectly  still.  I  think  I  ought  to  say 


50  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

that,  when  I  recounted  this  part  of  my  story  to 
Timson,  he  positively  refused  to  credit  it.  He 
pointed  out  that  a  square  field  revolving  on  its 
own  center  would  come  right  across  the  lane 
which  bordered  one  side  of  it,  and  that  anyone  in 
that  lane  would  be  swept  into  space.  I  am  quite 
unable  to  answer  him.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  if 
I  could  have  managed  my  dream  a  little  more 
mathematically,  I  should  have  been  swept  into 
space.  I  could  only  point  out  to  Timson  once 
more  that  I  had  not  had  his  experience  in 
dreaming,  and  that  he  must  not  look  for  too 
much  from  a  beginner.  At  the  conclusion  of 
my  dream  I  did  obey  a  known  mathematical 
law,  which  certainly  seems  as  if  I  had  improved 
with  practice.  Besides,  let  us  suppose  that  the 
field  revolved  not  on  its  own  center,  but  on 
some  center  that  it  had  borrowed  for  the  occa- 
sion— where  are  Timson's  arguments  then? 

The  fact  remains  that,  although  the  field 
most  certainly  turned  round,  it  did  not  inter- 
fere with  me  in  the  least.  One  by  one  familiar 
characters  on  their  respective  gates  passed 
slowly  before  my  eyes.  There  was  the  impos- 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  51 

sible  rustic,  scratching  his  head,  and  talking 
that  mixture  of  Devonshire,  Cumberland,  and 
the  imagination  which  is  the  recognized  village 
dialect.  Then  came  the  negro  servant.  He 
hailed  me  as  "Buckra  massa."  I  don't  know 
what  it  means,  but  I  suppose  it's  all  right.  He 
disapproved  of  the  motion  of  the  field.  "Me 
plenty  fear.  Me  no  like  dis  sarecular  rotability, 
sare."  I  had  not  time  to  inquire  whether  his 
name  was  Pompey  or  Caesar;  the  negro  servants 
of  fiction  generally  are  either  one  or  the  other, 
and  I  have  known  one  bad  case  where  the  poor 
man  was  both.  He  was  followed  by  the  usual 
family  lawyer,  who  was  wrinkling  his  brow, 
rubbing  his  white  hands,  and  giving  his  dry 
and  deprecatory  coughs  alternately.  I  have 
tried  the  deprecatory  cough  myself,  but  with 
no  success  to  speak  of.  Then  the  field  began 
to  move  faster;  the  characters  on  their  respec- 
tive gates  simply  flew  past.  The  traditional 
sailor  only  just  had  time  to  expectorate  and 
offer  a  short  prayer  for  the  destruction  of  his 
vision,  before  he  vanished  from  my  eyes;  and 
out  of  the  whirling  chaos  came  a  flash  of  bright 


52  PL  A  y  THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

green  bonnet-strings  and  a  shrill  cry  of  "Where's 
that  blessed  child  ?"  I  knew  it  was  Mrs.  Jinkins. 
She  had  passed  in  the  very  act  of  being  amusing 
but  not  vulgar.  The  worst,  at  any  rate,  was  over. 
A  second  afterward  the  field  stopped  short. 

A  very  pretty  girl,  with  soft  dark  hair  and  a 
graceful  figure,  was  sitting  on  the  gate  imme- 
diately before  me,  with  a  book  in  her  hands.  I 
knew  her  at  once.  I  knew  that  her  ear  resem- 
bled a  delicate  pink  sea  shell ;  I  knew  that  her 
eyelashes  must  inevitably  be  long.  She  was 
the  charming  innocent  type.  The  hero  finds 
her  thus  in  her  guileless  village  simplicity  read- 
ing some  harmless  story,  in  her  inexpensive 
white  dress  with  the  knot  of  common  or  garden 
geranium  at  the  throat.  He  startles  her  as  he 
passes,  and  she  drops  her  book,  and  he  picks  it 
up.  It  is  thus  that  the  intimacy  begins.  She 
is  the  daughter  of  the  poor  vicar  and  he  is  the 
scion  of  a  noble  house.  He  has  come  to  the 
village  for  the  sake  of  rest,  or  fishing,  or  sketch- 
ing. Whichever  it  is,  he  does  it  rather  better 
than  anyone  else;  it  is  a  way  these  heroes 
have.  The  poor,  old,  gray-haired  vicar  goes 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  53 


pottering  about  his  garden,  and  never  sees  that 
a  train  for  a  three-volume  novel  is  being  laid 
under  his  very  nose.  He  is  devoted,  of  course, 
to  his  only  daughter,  and  his  blindness  pro- 
ceeds partly  from  the  childlike  simplicity  which 
is  natural  to  these  sylvan  haunts,  but  also  be- 
cause he  must  be  aware  by  this  time  that  the 
story  could  not  possibly  get  on  without  it.  So 
the  hero  makes  love  to  her,  because  he  is  not 
in  the  least  in  love  with  her;  and  she  does  not 
make  love  to  him,  because  she  is  very  much  in 
love  with  him.  In  this  sinful  world  the  heroes 
get  most  of  the  undercut.  As  a  rule,  he  kisses 
her  on  the  eyes  and  mouth  alone  ;  but  the  nose 
and  back  hair  are  the  only  parts  of  a  girl's  head 
which  the  hero  never  kisses.  He  leaves  the 
village,  and  marries  someone  else.  Then  comes 
the  breakfast  table  scene,  which  we  all  know  and 
hate  so  well.  She  takes  up  the  newspaper  with 
a  merry  laugh,  and  suddenly  sees  the  adver- 
tisement of  the  hero's  marriage.  She  turns 
deadly  pale,  grasps  the  table  to  save  herself 
from  falling,  and,  murmuring  that  the  heat  is 
too  much  for  her  and  that  she  will  be  better 


54  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

presently,  staggers  from  the  room.  The  com- 
placency and  blandness  with  which  this  excuse 
is  always  received  is  simply  maddening.  "Poor 
child  !"  the  vicar  murmurs  pensively,  as  he  sips 
his  last  cup  of  tea,  and  then  goes  out  to  play 
the  fool  among  the  azaleas  without  giving  the 
matter  another  thought. 

If  the  book  is  to  be  sad,  she  pines  and  dies; 
if  it  is  to  be  cheerful,  the  curate,  who  has  all 
the  time  adored  her  in  secret,  now  comes  to 
the  fore,  kisses  over  the  same  old  ground,  and 
finally  marries  her. 

As  I  looked  at  her,  I  felt  sorry  for  her.  I 
determined  to  give  her  a  little  variety  in  her 
monotonous  existence;  so  I  stepped  softly  up 
to  her,  took  her  by  the  hair,  and  kissed  the  tip 
of  her  nose.  There  was  a  whirr  and  click  as  of 
machinery  set  in  motion ;  then  she  gave  a  little 
frightened  cry,  and  fluttered  like  a  bird.  I 
might  have  known  it — a  kiss  is  as  certain  to 
produce  this  effect  on  the  innocent  and  auto- 
matic doll  of  fiction  as  the  placing  of  a  penny 
in  the  slot  is  to  procure  fusees  when  you  want 
wax  vestas. 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  55 

There  were  several  other  ladies  on  adjacent 
gates,  but  I  am  naturally  rather  shy,  and  I  did 
not  have  much  conversation  with  them.  One 
was  in  a  riding-habit.  She 'glanced  at  me  with 
evident  disapprobation  from  head  to  foot,  and 
told  me  that  a  certain  kind  of  stretcher  pre- 
vented the  male  garment  from  becoming  baggy 
at  the  fetlocks.  I  had  read  "The  Stench  of 
the  Stables,"  and  one  or  two  other  sporting 
novels,  so  I  knew  that  her  conversation  would 
not  be  intelligible,  and  I  did  not  stop  to  hear 
any  more  of  it.  Next  to  her  was  the  small 
plain  governess,  who  confides  to  her  diary  how 
surprised  she  is  that  all  the  male  characters  fall 
in  love  with  her.  It  is  a  pleasing  trait  in  the 
virgfnal  character. 

"I've  just  made  an  entry,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  want  to  contradict  you,"  I  replied, 
"but  I  fail  to  understand  how  you  can  make 
the  entry  when  you're  sitting  on  the  gate." 

She  corrected  my  mistake.  "I  referred  to 
my  diary,  and  not  to  the  field,"  she  answered. 
"I  will  read  it  to  you." 

I   expostulated,  but   her  only   reply  was  to 


56  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

read  as  follows  from  a  little  volume  bound  in 
morocco : 

"Another  hot  morning  in  the  schoolroom. 
Editha  was  very  unmly  again,  and  did  not  know 
her  geography.  I  hope  I  was  not  unkind  to 
her,  but  I  was  very  firm.  I  told  her  that  she 
must  learn  it  again,  and  that  I  would  finish  cor- 
recting her  theme  in  the  meantime.  While  I 
was  engaged  thus,  Mr.  Charles  sauntered  into 
the  schoolroom.  I  tried  to  speak  quite  sharply 
to  him,  and  to  tell  him  that  it  was  not  the  place 
for  him,  but  I  am  afraid  that  my  poor  little 
voice  quavered.  He  only  laughed  at  me,  and 
began  putting  flies  in  the  inkpot.  Then  he 
came  round  behind  me  and  let  my  hair  down. 
'What  a  little  beauty  it  is !'  he  said  banteringly. 
I  told  him  that  if  he  did  not  go  away  I  would 
tell  Mrs.  Beecham.  So  he  retired,  walking  out 
of  the  room  on  his  hands.  How  strong  and 
manly  he  is !  Can  he  possibly  see  any  beauty 
in  my  poor  insignificant  face?  If  only  my  dear 
Aunt  Maria  were  here  to  advise  me!" 

I  thanked  her,  and  passed  on  until  I  came  to 
the  gate  which  was  next  the  principal  entrance. 


THE  HUNDRED   GATES.  57 


A  curate  sat  upon  it.  Occasionally  he  pressed 
his  forehead  with  one  hand  in  a  weary  way. 
There  were  dark  lines  under  his  eyes,  and  he 
gazed  at  me  as  if  I  hurt  him  badly. 

"You  were  wondering  who  I  am,"  he  said, 
and  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  contradict 
him.  "I  am  the  uncommon  curate." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "you  had  better  get  off  that 
gate.  This  field  is  reserved  for  commonplace 
characters  only." 

"Ah !"  he  moaned,  in  a  voice  so  tired  that  it 
almost  seemed  to  ache,  "you  don't  understand. 
The  uncommon  curate  has  now  grown  more 
common  than  the  other  sort.  You  expect  a 
curate  to  be  a  good  man  and  a  Christian.  The 
most  commonplace  way  of  avoiding  the  com- 
monplace is  to  make  him  either  a  murderer  or 
an  agnostic.  It  is  far  from  difficult ;  a  mere 
child  can  apply  it.  For  myself,  I  am  perfectly 
conscientious  and  unusually  intelligent.  That 
is  why  I  took  orders  without  examining  the 
faith  that  I  professed  to  embrace.  I'm  not  a 
Christian  now,  and  my  wife  won't  be  an  agnos- 
tic. She  is  pious,  but  dull — mostly  cold  mutton 


58  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

and  hymns.  So  I've  gone  and  made  a  nice  little 
religion  all  to  myself.  Sermons !  I  should  think 
so — regular  stingers !  Ah  me !"  He  gave  a  sigh 
that  shook  the  gate  till  it  rattled. 

I  did  not  see  any  way  to  console  the  poor 
man.  I  thought  of  pointing  out  that  those  who 
read  about  him  suffered  even  more  than  him- 
self, but  I  was  by  no  means  sure  how  he  would 
take  it,  so  I  changed  the  subject.  "I  see  that 
the  gate  next  to  you — the  principal  entrance — 
is  vacant.  Are  you  expecting  anyone?" 

To  my  surprise  he  brightened  up  at  once. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "we've  been  waiting  for  you. 
The  man  who  tries  to  get  a  cheap  reputation 
for  wit  by  sneering  at  things  not  worth  the 
sneer  is  the  most  commonplace  character  of 
all.  Pray  be  seated." 

I  obeyed,  because  I  could  not  help  it,  and 
the  field  at  once  began  to  rotate.  Faster  and 
faster  it  whirled  round.  I  clung  to  my  gate, 
but  known  mathematical  laws  were  too  much 
for  me.  I  was  flung  into  space,  went  into 
three  volumes,  and  was  much  appreciated  by 
the  public.  The  surprise  awoke  me. 


THE  SECULAR  CONFESSIONAL.* 


*  This  series  is  taken  from  private  letters  formerly  in  the 
possession  of  a  First  Authority,  now  deceased.  He  appointed 
me  his  literary  executor,  with  instructions  to  publish  nothing. 
Pauper tas  me  impulit. 


I.— THE  LAST  CHAPTER. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  AND  COUNSELOR: 

I  wish  to  consult  you  once  more,  and  in  the 
strictest  confidence.  I  want  your  advice  be- 
cause you  are  the  First  Authority  on  Every- 
thing; I  trust  you  because  you  are  of  a  truly 
noble  nature,  and  have  a  due  sense  of  honor, 
and  would  not  make  any  public  use  of  a 
private  letter. 

I  am,  as  you  know,  a  lady  writer  of  ladylike 
stories  for  children ;  and  you  may  be  assured 
that  when  I  undertook  the  serial  for  The 
Nursery  Nightlight  this  winter,  I  counted 
upon  coming  to  you  in  all  my  difficulties.  I 
know  that  if  there  is  anyone  in  this  world  who 
could  make  my  stories  for  children  more  lady- 
like than  they  are  at  present,  it  is  yourself. 
Some  time  ago  I  purchased  your  manual  for  lit- 
erary beginners,  "How  to  Avoid  Originality: 
By  One  Who  has  Done  It,"  and  I  have  found 


62  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

it  of  immense  assistance  to  me.  When  I  first 
procured  it,  I  was  trying  to  write  what  I  had 
observed  or  imagined,  and  was  starving  in  a 
garret.  My  present  position  of  affluence  is 
entirely  due  to  the  first  aphorism  in  your  book, 
"Pioneering  does  not  pay.  Prig  and  be  popu- 
lar." I  have  prigged.  I  have  skimmed  the 
cream  of  all  the  most  successful  stories  for  chil- 
dren and  worked  it  into  my  serial  in  The  Nur- 
sery Nightlight.  I  have  wallowed  in  the  faith- 
ful hound,  the  stolen  pencil-case,  the  child's 
devotions,  the  incoherent  sick-bed.  I  believe 
in  Selection  rather  than  Invention.  Thanks 
to  your  manual,  I  have  done  well,  exceedingly 
well;  my  editor  is  pleased  and  my  readers  are 
pleased.  But  I  am  rather  in  doubt  about  my 
last  chapter.  Up  to  that  point  I  followed  your 
directions  implicitly.  My  story  is  called 
"Little  Phil."  The  title  was  selected  in  ac- 
cordance with  one  of  your  notes  on  cheap 
advertisement : 

"Let  your  title  be  such  that  a  critic  may  be 
bright  about  it.  He  can  refrain  from  noticing 
your  book,  but  he  cannot  refrain  from  being 


THE  LAST  CHAPTER.  63 

bright  when  he  has  an  easy  chance.     So  shall 
you  come  to  a  paragraph." 

Forty-two  critics  have  said  that  "Little  Phil" 
was  really  a  little  filling.  Thirty-nine  of  them 
added  that  it  was,  however,  a  pleasant  story,  to 
show  that  they  said  what  they  said  from  wit, 
and  not  from  unkindliness.  In  my  incidents 
and  development  I  obeyed  the  rules  in  your 
manual  entirely.  But  now  I  have  come  to  my 
last  chapter.  Your  aphorism  says  as  follows: 

"If  the  hero's  Christian  name  be  monosyl- 
labic or  used  in  a  monosyllabic  form,  the  hero 
dies.  To  this  rule  there  is  no  exception.  Tim- 
othy may  recover;  but  Tim  says,  'I'm  going — 
home — home  now,'  and  all  is  over." 
[^  On  the  other  hand,  my  editor  insists  that 
my  hero  Phil  shall  not  die.  He  is  rather  a 
violent  man,  and  he  writes  to  me  as  follows : 
"I'm  not  going  to  ruin  my  circulation  by  having 
any  deaths  in  my  Christmas  Number.  You've 
got  to  be  cheerful,  or  you  get  no  more  work 
from  me.  Do  you  understand  that?"  Now  I 
am  in  doubt  whether  to  follow  your  advice  or 
his  order.  Is  any  compromise  possible? 


64  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

The  circumstances  are  these :  There  is  a 
brutal,  drunken  cabman  in  my  story,  whose 
horse  runs  away  with  him,  because  he  has 
beaten  it  unmercifully.  Little  Phil  sees  it  tear- 
ing down  the  street,  and  tries  to  stop  it.  The 
noble  and  intelligent  horse  avoids  treading  on 
the  poor  boy,  who  had  never  done  it  any  harm  ; 
but  one  wheel  of  the  cab  goes  over  him  and 
breaks  his  spine  in  five  different  places.  He 
staggers  to  his  feet,  and  exclaims  dizzily:  "I 
am  afraid  that  I  am  badly  hurt."  Then  he 
swoons  away  in  the  arms  of  the  "good,  kind 
lady"  (she  is  No.  185  in  your  list  of  useful  types). 
He  is  taken  to  the  hospital  and  is  undoubtedly 
very  ill.  At  times  he  is  unconscious,  and  talks 
about  the  gates  of  the  west.  I  have  found  two 
of  your  aphorisms  most  useful : 

"Invalids  in  fiction  eat  grapes  and  jelly — 
nothing  else.  Their  drink  is  'cooling  drink.' 
No  one  knows  what  it  is,  and  no  one  wants  to 
know.  But  give  it  them.  The  public  ex- 
pects it." 

"Do  not  trouble  to  be  medically  possible. 
The  public  knows  nothing  of  medical  science. 


THE  LAST  CHAPTER.  65 

No  known  anaesthetic,  for  instance,  takes  effect 
with  the  speed  of  the  fictional  chloroformed 
handkerchief." 

I  must  also  express  my  obligations  to  your 
list  of  the  six  diseases  which  alone  are  men- 
tioned in  stories,  together  with  the  mental 
qualities  attached  to  each.  Phil's  uncle  has 
gout,  and  is  selfish  and  cynical ;  his  sister  has 
consumption,  and  is  pious;  and  his  own  spinal 
complaint  is,  of  course,  accompanied  by  cour- 
age and  resignation.  But  what  am  I  to  do 
about  the  last  chapter?  By  your  rules,  Phil 
must  die.  On  the  other  hand,  the  editor  says 
that  he  must  live. 

Please  keep  this  appeal  to  you  a  secret.  My 
editor  would  not  forgive  me  if  he  got  to  hear  of 
it ;  and  my  public  would  cease  to  believe  in  me. 
It  will  break  my  heart  if  I  have  to  let  Phil  live. 
Can  I  get  out  of  it? 


II.— BROKEN    HEARTS. 

[  The  following  tu>o  papers,  from  the  collection  of  the  First 
Authority,  seem  to  treat  of  the  same  subject;  they  are  fastened 
together  by  a  pin.  The  opening  sentences  of  the  first  letter  -were 
partially  destroyed  by  fire;  perhaps  some  critic  tvill  kindly  restore 
them.} 

(I.)  ...  to  forgive  .  .  .  azaleas  .  .  . 
blushed  slightly.  He  said  several  absurdly 
complimentary  things,  remarking  that  I  had 
just  the  grace  and  delicacy  of  the  flowers.  I 
pleaded  that  they  were  already  withered,  but 
he  said  it  was  for  their  dear  associations  that  he 
wanted  them ;  so  I  gave  them  to  him.  I  can- 
not remember  quite  when  he  began  to  call  me 
Blanche ;  it  had  been  going  on  some  time  before 
I  noticed  it, — at  least  he  said  so, — or  I  should 
certainly  have  stopped  him.  I  am  perfectly 
sure  that  he  would  have  proposed  to  me  there 
and  then,  if  the  others  had  not  happened  to 
come  out  on  the  balcony  and  interrupt  us;  of 
course  I  should  have  refused  him,  but  it  would 


BROKEN  HEARTS.  67 

have  been  difficult  to  make  him  understand  that 
I  had  not  really  encouraged  him — that  I  had 
never  wanted  him  to  hope — that  I  had  acted 
simply  from  a  natural  kindliness  of  disposition. 
As  it  is,  every  day  I  am  in  mortal  terror  that  he 
will  call  and  rush  upon  his  doom.  I  am  not  a 
flirt,  thank  Heaven  !  I  do  not  plead  guilty  to 
anything  in  the  remotest  degree  resembling 
flirtation ;  but  I  am  full  of  natural  kindliness, 
and  if  it  is  a  fault  to  indulge  a  generous  dis- 
position, then  I  confess  that  I  have  committed 
that  fault.  I  should  tell  you  that  I  never 
called  him  Reginald  once — except  twice  under 
strong  provocation.  Always  Mr.  Blubuck. 

I  am  so  miserable.  I  cannot  help  imagining 
how  he  will  look  when  I  refuse  him.  He  has 
remarkably  fine  eyes,  and  he  can  make  them 
unspeakably  pathetic.  His  voice  will  drop  to  a 
hoarse  whisper.  I  know  he  will  be  immensely 
overcome ;  he  has  just  the  nature  that  feels 
things  deeply,  and  I  am  sure  he  never  loved 
any  woman  before.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that,  without  intending  any  harm  at  all,  I  have 
broken  a  strong  man's  heart.  The  rest  of  his 


68  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

life  will  be  spent  in  loneliness.  I  should  not 
wonder  if  he  were  driven  to  some  rash  act,  or 
even  lost  his  reason.  I  have  indulged  my 
native  generosity  some  twenty  or  thirty  times 
before,  but  this  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  had 
to  confess  that  in  consequence  I  have  spoiled 
a  noble  human  life. 

I  only  wish  that  before  I  met  Reginald  I  had 
come  across  your  excellent  shilling  manual  on 
"The  Relationship  of  the  Sexes:  By  a  Bach- 
elor of  Sixty  Years'  Standing."  The  chapter 
on  balconies  would  have  warned  me.  "There 
is  only  one  step  from  the  Balcony  to  the  Altar," 
you  remark;  and  in  another  place,  "Moonlight 
lowers  the  standard  of  feminine  reserve."  It 
was  in  the  moonlight  that  I  called  him  Regi- 
nald. Truly  we  are  the  slaves  of  the  influences 
of  time  and  place.  "There  is  no  historical  in- 
stance," you  point  out,  "of  a  woman  who 
flirted  at  breakfast ;  if  life  were  all  breakfast, 
passionless  affection  would  be  possible  between 
the  young  of  opposite  sexes."  Why — oh,  why 
— did  I  not  meet  Reginald  at  breakfast  only ! 
I  should  not  have  had  to  reproach  myself,  as 


BROKEN  HEARTS.  69 


I  shall  have  to  reproach  myself  now,  with  hav- 
ing ruined  his  life  and  career,  and  completely 
broken  his  heart.  But  we  never  breakfasted  to- 
gether— and  we  did  sit  out  together.  Every 
girl  should  possess  a  copy  of  your  manual ;  the 
concentrated  wisdom  which  you  have  wrung 
from  your  forty-seven  engagements,  subse- 
quently broken,  is  not  to  be  despised.  But 
you  are  wrong  on  one  small  point.  You  say, 
"Women  who  are  very  fond  of  the  smell  of  gar- 
denia mostly  go  to  the  limit."  That  is  absurd ; 
I  am  very  fond  of  the  smell  of  gardenia  myself. 
Well,  it  has  been  some  small  consolation  to 
confess  my  wrongdoing  to  you,  if  indeed  I  have 
been  wrong,  and  not,  as  I  think,  merely  mis- 
taken. In  any  case, 

I  remain,  yours  in  deepest  penitence, 

BLANCHE  SUNNINGVALE. 

(II.)  DEAR  FIRST  AUTHORITY:  I  am  thor- 
oughly ashamed  of  myself,  and  I  want  to  say 
so  to  somebody.  You  must  know  that  there's 
rather  a  pretty  little  thing,  called  Blanche 
Sunningvale,  who  has  been  crossing  my  path  a 


70  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

\ 
good  deal  lately.    She's  not  quite  a  beauty,  but 

distinctly  provocante.  Well,  I  did  my  best  to 
amuse  myself  and  her;  and  I  am  afraid  now 
that  the  thing  has  gone  rather  beyond  amuse- 
ment. In  fact,  if  I  had  not  cleared  out,  she 
would  have  married  me,  as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Reginald  Blubuck.  As  far  as  money  and  that 
kind  of  thing  is  concerned,  she  is  all  right ;  but 
I  could  not  marry  her,  and  it  is  of  no  use  to 
think  about  it.  Things  came  to  a  climax  the 
other  night ;  she  got  me  out  on  to  the  balcony, 
and  there  was  the  old  business  that  one  has 
been  through  hundreds  of  times.  The  pace 
was  good.  I  am  not  a  vain  man,  but  she  called 
me  by  my  first  name,  and  made  it  fairly  obvi- 
ous what  she  expected ;  women  do  take  things 
so  seriously.  I  might  have  said  anything,  if 
we  had  not  been  interrupted. 

The  game  was  not  fair.  She,  poor  child,  had 
obviously  never  done  anything  of  the  kind  be- 
fore; I — well,  I'm  a  man  of  the  world,  you 
know.  Yet  I  have  my  feelings.  I  am  haunted 
by  a  persistent  vision  of  Blanche  sitting  alone 
in  her  own  room,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  wonder- 


BROKEN  HEARTS.  71 

ing  why  I  do  not  call,  growing  gradually  hope- 
less, heartbroken.  I  can  imagine  her  eyes ;  she 
can  make  them  look  very  mournful  and  sweet. 
She  will  never,  I  know,  marry  anyone  else ;  she 
is  just  the  kind  of  woman  that  loves  once  and 
once  only ;  I  only  hope  that  she  may  not  be 
driven  to  desperation  or  madness.  She  would, 
I  am  quite  sure,  take  no  one  into  her  confi- 
dence; I  do  not  mind  writing  to  you,  but 
Blanche  is  far  too  shy  to  speak  or  write  of  such 
things  to  anyone.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  think 
that  one  has  taken  advantage  of  the  simplicity 
of  a  good  woman  to  break  her  heart. 

Why  are  you  so  desperately  cynical?  I  have 
just  been  reading  your  little  manual  on  "The 
Relationship  of  the  Sexes."  You  say,  "  In  an  af- 
fair of  the  heart,  the  impression  which  the  man 
believes  he  has  made  on  the  woman  is  always 
identical  with  the  impression  that  the  woman 
believes  she  has  made  on  the  man ;  provided 
that,  as  usually  happens,  both  beliefs  are  inac- 
curate. For  conceit  is  of  humanity,  not  of 
sex."  That's  nonsense.  But  you  are  right 
about  the  gardenias ;  Blanche  adored  the  smell 


72  PL  A  Y  THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

of  them.  I  am  honestly  sorry  about  that  girl. 
I  know  that  I  must  have  hurt  her  terribly — in 
all  probability  spoiled  her  life. 

Yours  in  deepest  remorse, 

REGINALD  BLUBUCK. 


III.— THE  MURDER  AT  EUSTON. 

[On  the  margin  of  this  letter  the  First  Authority  had  written 
in  pencil :  "  The  execution  was  shockingly  bungled."] 

MY  DEAR  FIRST  AUTHORITY: 

I  think  I  knew  what  was  wrong  with  me, 
even  before  I  studied  your  last  book,  "The  Art 
of  Silence :  A  Hand-book  for  Conversation- 
alists." Even  before  I  read  your  chapter 
on  "Repeaters,"  I  knew  that  I  suffered  from 
the  vice  of  repetition.  I  knew  that  if  I  said 
a  thing  once,  it  was  fated  that  I  should  say 
it  twice,  possibly  thrice.  It  is  too  late  now 
for  repentance  to  be  of  any  real  use,  but 
I  wish  I  could  have  followed  your  advice 
then.  I  did  not  believe  then  that  the  ability 
to  interchange  thoughts  was  the  curse  of  the 
human  race ;  I  thought  you  were  wrong  when 
you  said  that  it  was  chiefly  the  gift  of  articulate 
speech  which  prevented  man  from  rising  to  the 
level  of  the  pig;  in  short,  I  considered  your 


74  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

praise  of  silence  to  be  quite  excessive  and  exag- 
gerated. Do  you  remember  the  first  sentence 
of  your  book :  "  To  talk  well  is  to  be  admired  ; 
to  listen  well  is  to  be  loved."  I  read  it,  but 
preferred  to  be  admired  at  whatever  cost.  I 
am  a  Repeater,  and  the  only  remedy  for  Re- 
peaters is,  as  you  say,  everlasting  silence. 
Well,  I  am  likely  to  get  the  everlasting  silence 
now.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened.  And 
I  must  first  of  all  explain  why  I  stole  A.'s 
epigram. 

A.  undoubtedly  has  wit,  if  you  can  give  him 
time  and  he  can  manipulate  the  conversation 
until  he  gets  his  opportunity,  and  he  never  re- 
peats himself  or  anyone  else.  And  yet  he  is 
one  of  those  for  whom  you  would  prescribe 
everlasting  silence,  because  he  has  not  got  the 
Conversational  Manner.  He  goes  on  well  until 
he  has  got  his  opportunity  and  brought  out 
his  epigram ;  then  he  at  once,  like  lightning, 
assumes  the  appearance  of  a  stuffed  toad  with 
glass  eyes  three  sizes  too  big  for  it,  and  a  guilty 
conscience.  Well,  A.  lives  in  Edinburgh,  and 
one  night  when  I  was  dining  with  him  there 


THE  MURDER   AT  EUSTON.  75 

he  brought  out  the  very  best  epigram  I  had  ever 
heard  from  him.  The  lead-up  to  it  was  superb. 
He  started  on  public  swimming  baths,  and  got 
by  seventeen  perfectly  natural  steps  to  the 
subject  of  the  epigram,  which  was  on  match- 
boxes. I  traced  it  out  afterward.  The  epigram 
was,  of  course,  ruined  by  the  fact  that  A.  has 
no  Conversational  Manner.  He  has  not  the 
trick  of  saying  a  thing.  So  I  told  him  that  I 
did  not  think  much  of  his  little  joke. 

On  my  return  from  Edinburgh  I  stopped  for 
one  night  at  the  house  of  my  friend  B.  at 
Carlisle.  B.  does  not  converse  ;  but  he  talks  a 
little  and  listens  brilliantly.  I  played  off  A.'s 
epigram  on  him  as  my  own.  B.  laughed  for 
three  hours  consecutively  and  said  it  was  the 
best  thing  that  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life. 
He  wrote  it  down  in  a  notebook. 

I  then  went  on  to  London,  and  there  one 
afternoon  C.  called  on  me  at  my  chambers.  I 
repeated  the  epigram,  as  my  own,  to  C.  He 
had  hysterics  from  sheer  delight.  He  rolled  on 
the  floor.  "It's  the  wittiest  thing  that  has  ever 
been  said.  It  can't  have  been  impromptu,"  he 


7&  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

remarked.  "It  was"  I  replied.  "I'm  not  in 
the  habit  of  repeating  things."  I  looked  hurt, 
and  I  felt  hurt.  A  perfectly  true  accusation 
always  hurts. 

"Anyhow,"  C.  said,  "it  will  be  something  to 
tell  B.  to-morrow.  I'm  going  up  to  Carlisle  to- 
night by  the  express,  you  know.  Of  course,  I 
will  give  you  all  the  credit  of  it,  but  I  positively 
must  tell  B.  that  impromptu." 

I  shuddered.  At  whatever  cost,  C.  had  to 
be  prevented  from  repeating  that  epigram  to  B. 

"Why,"  C.  went  on,  "I'm  going  on  to  Edin- 
burgh the  day  afterward,  and  then  I  shall  have 
a  chance  of  telling  old  A.  as  well." 

It  sounded  simple  enough.  It  meant,  of 
course,  that  if  he  was  allowed  to  do  what  he 
wanted,  all  three  of  them,  A.,  B.,  and  C.  would 
have  the  fixed  idea  for  the  remainder  of  their 
lives  that  I  was  a  thief,  a  liar,  and  a  fool.  I 
resorted  to  strategy,  and  asked  C.  to  dine  with 
me  at  the  club.  It  was  my  intention  to  keep 
him  there  by  some  means  or  other  until  he  was 
too  late  for  the  north  express.  I  remembered 
that  C.  was  an  ardent  politician.  "Gladstone's 


THE  MURDER  AT  EUSTON.  77 


dining  with  me  to-night,  and  you'll  meet  him." 
I  should  mention  that  I  have  not  the  honor  of 
being  acquainted  in  the  slightest  degree  with 
Mr.  Gladstone.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me 
before  that  he  was  a  living  man.  I  had  always 
regarded  him  as  a  tendency — something,  not 
ourselves,  that  made  for  Home  Rule.  But 
now  I  saw  that  he  was  a  human  attraction. 
"Really?"  said  C.,  a  little  incredulously,  I 
thought.  "Yes,"  I  said  meditatively,  "I've 
known  him  for  some  time.  But  do  as  you  like 
about  coming.  Ruskin  will  probably  look  in 
after  dinner.  But  do  just  as  you  like."  In  my 
determination  to  save  my  conversational  repu- 
tation I  was  getting,  perhaps,  a  little  wild.  But 
C.  is  simple-minded,  and  accepted. 

I  exhausted  myself  that  night  with  my  ex- 
cuses for  Mr.  Gladstone  and  Mr.  Ruskin,  and 
with  my  endeavors  to  detain  C.  But  he  would 
not  be  detained.  He  had  brought  his  port- 
manteau with  him  to  the  club,  and  was  intend- 
ing to  drive  straight  to  Euston.  I  offered, 
finally,  to  go  with  him,  and  managed  to  get  to 
the  cab  first.  "  Here  are  two  sovereigns,"  I  said 


78  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

in  a  hurried  whisper  to  the  cabman,  "Now,  miss 
the  train  that  my  friend  tells  you  to  catch." 

But  after  we  had  run  into  the  third  omnibus 
C.  insisted  on  getting  out  and  taking  another 
cab.  We  had  plenty  of  time  at  Euston.  By 
means  of  more  bribery  and  strategy  I  managed 
to  get  C.  and  his  portmanteau  thrust  into  some 
local  train  that  went  to  nowhere-in-particular. 
I  even  had  him  locked  in.  But  an  idiot  of  an 
inspector  came  and  bundled  him  out  again.  I 
entreated  C.  not  to  go  on  to  Carlisle ;  I  told 
him  that  I  had  a  presentiment  that  harm  would 
come  of  it.  He  laughed  at  me.  "No,"  he  said, 
"I  must  tell  B.  and  A.  that  impromptu  of 
yours."  He  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
platform  at  the  time,  and  a  train  was  just 
steaming  in.  The  least  shove  did  it.  The  rest 
you  have  probably  gathered  from  the  news- 
papers. To  you  only  have  I  told  my  real 
motive.  I  am  the  victim  of  conversation. 
Yours  unhappily, 

A  REPEATER. 


IV.— BAD  HABITS. 

MY  DEAR  FIRST  AUTHORITY: 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  impressed  I  was  by  your 
"Bad  Habits,  and  How  to  Form  Them."  It  is 
quite  the  most  moral  book  that  has  been  written 
for  some  time.  The  greatest  virtue,  as  you  well 
maintain,  is  the  resistance  to  the  greatest  temp- 
tation ;  the  greatest  temptation  is  that  which 
results  from  a  bad  habit  long  continued.  The 
man  who  has  never  smoked  has  no  claim  upon 
our  admiration ;  the  man  who  has  long  been  in 
the  habit  of  smoking  from  early  morn  to  dewy 
eve,  and  then  relinquishes  the  practice — such  a 
one  is  worthy  of  election  to  a  County  Council, 
of  a  biography,  of  a  real  marble  tombstone,  of 
all  honor.  As  I  read,  I  saw  how  wrong  I  had 
been  all  my  life.  I  had  never  formed  any  bad 
habits;  consequently  my  virtue  had  nothing  to 
work  upon.  One  cannot  fight  when  there  is 
nothing  with  which  to  fight ;  one  cannot  conquer 
when  there  is  absolutely  nothing  to  conquer. 


8o  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

I  saw  that  what  I  wanted,  in  order  to  make  my- 
self more  perfect,  was  a  few  besetting  sins ;  then 
I  could  exercise  my  will-force. 

Long  ago,  in  my  childhood's  days,  Humility 
claimed  me  for  her  own.  I  was  not  ambitious. 
I  did  not  want  to  commence  with  the  greatest 
and  grandest  sins,  such  as  arson,  or  harmonium- 
playing,  or  high  treason.  I  turned  modestly  to 
your  chapter  on  "Minor  Vices,"  which  you 
especially  recommended  to  young  criminals  just 
learning  their  business.  For  some  time  I  hesi- 
tated which  of  your  list  to  choose.  At  first  I 
tried  two  at  once — your  list,  you  remember,  was 
in  alphabetical  order — back-biting,  and  break- 
fasting-in-pyjamas.  Well,  sir,  it  may  have  been 
my  stupidity,  or  it  may  have  been  my  congeni- 
tal innocence,  but  I  found  I  could  not  manage 
these  two  sins  simultaneously.  They  confused 
me.  On  the  very  first  day  I  found  myself 
breakfast-biting  and  backing  into  my  pyjamas. 
To  prevent  further  complications,  I  gave  up 
these  two  offenses  and  selected  one  good,  plain, 
ordinary  vice — the  vice  of  reading-in-bed. 

I  followed  your  directions  implicitly.     There 


BAD  HABITS.  8 1 


were  no  curtains  to  my  bed,  but  I  had  some  put 
up,  and  especially  ordered  that  they  should  be 
of  a  light  and  inflammable  material.  Then  I 
put  two  lighted  candles  close  to  the  curtains, 
opened  my  window  and  door  in  order  to  secure 
a  draught,  and  began  to  read.  After  a  time  I 
let  the  book  drop  from  my  hands,  and  fell 
asleep.  In  one  hour  I  ought  to  have  waked  up 
and  found  the  room  full  of  smoke,  to  have  ex- 
tinguished with  difficulty  the  smoldering  cur- 
tains, and  seen  the  evil  of  my  ways.  However, 
I  never  got  any  conflagration  at  all.  Time 
after  time  I  did  my  utmost  to  be  careless  and 
thoughtless;  I  always  used  candles,  although 
there  is  gas  in  my  room ;  I  took  no  end  of 
trouble  about  it.  But  I  never  could  get  the  evil 
results.  Those  curtains  might  have  been  made 
of  twopenny  cigars ;  they  seemed  absolutely  in- 
combustible. Neither  could  I  manage  to  suffer 
from  want  of  sleep,  for  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find  any  book  which  will  keep  me  awake  for 
three  minutes  after  I  get  into  bed.  Now,  sir,  it 
is  not  worth  while  to  battle  with  a  habit  which 
cannot  be  bad  because  it  produces  no  bad  re- 


82  PLAYTHINGS  AXD  PARODIES. 

suits  whatever.  Besides,  it  is  a  habit  which 
absolutely  refuses  to  be  formed ;  if  I  am  very 
sleepy  I  do  not  always  remember  to  take  a  book 
to  bed  with  me,  and  I  have  frequently  forgot- 
ten to  forget  to  put  the  candles  out.  Briefly,  I 
cannot  display  any  virtues,  or  exercise  any 
will-force,  by  fighting  against  a  bad  habit  which 
is,  in  my  case,  neither  bad  nor  habitual. 

So  at  present  my  will-force  is  doing  abso- 
lutely nothing,  eating  its  head  off.  I  want  to 
break  myself  of  something.  I  feel  sure  that  I 
shall  never  really  be  virtuous  until  I  can  over- 
come a  bad  habit,  and  I  find  myself  utterly  un- 
able to  form  a  bad  habit.  My  natural  inclina- 
tions are  all  good.  Tobacco  and  drink  are  re- 
pulsive to  me  and  make  me  ill;  I  am  unable  to 
get  any  interest  out  of  gambling.  I  cannot  tell 
a  lie;  George  Washington  suffered  in  just  the 
same  way.  But  why  should  I  particularize 
further?  Isolated  faults  I  may  occasionally 
commit,  but  in  spite  of  your  excellent  manual  I 
cannot  form  a  bad  habit. 

Yours  in  despair, 

INITIALS  BLANK. 


BAD  HABITS.  83 


P.  S. —  Immediately  after  writing  the  above, 
I  turned  once  more  to  your  manual,  and  there 
for  the  first  time  came  across  your  advice  to 
the  desperate  cases:  "If  you  cannot  acquire  a 
bad  habit  in  any  other  way,  imagine  that  you 
have  it  and  are  trying  to  give  it  up."  I  acted 
upon  this  advice.  Three  weeks  have  elapsed 
since  then.  I  am  now  a  slave  to  the  practice 
of  opium  eating,  and  habitually  untruthful. 
My  virtue  at  last  has  something  upon  which  to 
work,  and  life  is  once  more  bright  and  happy. 
The  highest  moral  perfection  may  yet  be  mine. 
Allow  me  to  offer  you  my  sincerest  thanks. 


V.— THE  PROCESSIONAL  INSTINCT. 

MY  DEAR  FIRST  AUTHORITY  : 

In  one  of  the  chapters  of  your  interesting 
little  "Curiosities  of  Humanity,"  you  point  out 
that  our  private  life  is  circular,  and  our  public 
life  is  rectilineal.  The  curate  and  the  choir  are 
grouped  carelessly  in  the  seclusion  of  the  ves- 
try, but  tread  the  aisle  in  an  arranged  proces- 
sion. The  twelve  policemen  who  form  a  con- 
stellation in  the  station  yard  walk  in  regular 
file  in  the  street.  The  marriages  and  funerals 
of  humanity  involve  processions,  because  they 
are  public;  betrothals  and  deathbeds  involve 
no  such  arrangement,  because  they  are  private. 
The  circus  in  its  own  tent,  partially  secluded 
— only  to  be  seen  by  those  who  have  paid  en- 
trance money — is  circular,  as,  indeed  its  name 
implies;  but  when  it  is  most  truly  public  and 
may  be  seen  of  all,  it  is  prolonged  and  proces- 
sional. And  then  you  go  on  to  speak  of  the 


THE  PROCESSIONAL  INSTINCT.  85 

processional  instinct ;  you  say  that  it  may  grow 
upon  a  man  and  choke  all  higher  motives. 
Read,  then,  the  story  of  one  who  illustrates 
the  truth  of  every  word  that  you  have  said. 

I  am  a  young  man,  and  I  have  much  leisure 
time  on  my  hands.  Seated  one  day,  a  year 
ago,  at  my  window,  I  saw  a  girls'  school  pass 
down  the  street.  They  walked  two  and  two. 
Stately  and  slow  they  proceeded.  The  proud, 
ugly  mistress  made  glorious  the  close  of  that 
long  line.  She  held  her  parasol  almost  defi- 
antly, and  her  spectacles  flashed  and  flashed. 
For  some  time  after  they  had  gone  I  sat  and 
mused ;  later  in  the  day  I  went  out  and  joined 
our  volunteers.  I  did  not  know  why  I  joined 
them ;  I  thought  that  I  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing for  my  country,  and  also  to  exercise  my- 
self ;  I  know  now  what  the  reason  was.  It  was 
the  ignoble  processional  instinct  asserting  itself. 
It  poisons  everything  that  I  do;  it  has  de- 
stroyed every  noble  motive  within  me.  I  am 
not  worthy  to  be  a  man  at  all ;  I  ought  to  have 
been  born  a  panorama. 

What  was  it  made  me  agree  to  assist  in  the 


86  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

collection  of  the  offertory  in  church?  It  was 
the  processional  instinct.  What  was  it  that 
made  me  take  an  active  part  in  our  local  poli- 
tics? Once  more  it  was  the  processional  in- 
stinct. I  walked  up  the  chancel  to  slow  music ; 
I  careered  in  a  carriage  with  a  banner  in  front 
of  me  and  a  brass  band  behind  me.  It  was 
complete  rapture.  I  glowed,  expanded,  and 
almost  purred ;  I  knew  that  the  eyes  of  my 
native  village  were  upon  me  and  I  enjoyed  it 
thoroughly.  I  thought  then  that  I  was  work- 
ing for  the  Church  and  my  political  party ;  I  de- 
luded myself.  Unconsciously  I  was  giving  way 
to  that  mean  and  unworthy  motive,  the  proces- 
sional instinct.  About  this  time  I  spent  one 
penny  on  an  illustrated  account  of  the  Lord 
Mayor's  Show,  and  read  it  in  secret.  How  I 
envied  him !  Slowly  I  began  to  realize  what 
was  wrong  with  me.  I  thought  what  a  beauti- 
ful word  cortege  was,  and  introduced  it  into 
every  private  letter  that  I  wrote.  I  bought  an 
expensive  picture  of  a  conquering  army  enter- 
ing a  captured  town,  because  there  was  a  dis- 
tinct similarity  between  my  face  and  the  face  of 


THE  PROCESSIONAL   INSTINCT.  87 

the  conqueror's  horse.  I  gazed  often  at  that 
picture,  murmuring  under  my  breath,  "A  mag- 
nificent pageant !"  I  imagined  that  I  was  pranc- 
ing brightly  at  the  front  of  it.  I  was  now  a 
complete  processomaniac,  a  victim  to  cortege 
craving.  Whenever  I  got  a  chance  of  pro- 
ceeding, I  always  availed  myself  of  it  eagerly. 
One  day  I  had  just  been  reading  an  account 
of  a  fashionable  wedding.  It  said  that  the  sun- 
light streamed  in  at  the  stained  windows,  and, 
as  the  happy  procession  passed  up  the  flower- 
strewn  aisle,  the  grand  old  organ  pealed  forth 
the  beautiful  wedding  march.  I  put  down  the 
newspaper,  walked  over  to  the  piano,  and  picked 
out  a  portion  of  the  wedding  march  with  one  fin- 
ger; then  a  sort  of  paroxysm  came  over  me.  I 
put  on  my  hat  and  rushed  out  into  the  street. 
I  ordered  a  pearly  gray  suit,  with  silk  facings 
and  buttons  that  would  reflect  the  joyful  sun- 
light. Then  I  careered  out  of  the  tailor's,  and, 
after  some  difficulty,  found  Amabel  Stoker.  I 
talked  of  indifferent  matters  to  her  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  I  asked  her  if  she  would 
marry  me.  I  did  not  say  that  I  loved  her,  be- 


88  PLA  y  THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

cause  I  did  not  think  it  would  seem  probable 
enough.  She  answered  shyly  :  '  'Yes,  I  think  so. 
Have  I  been  weak?  Have  I  allowed  you  to 
guess  the  feelings  of  my  heart?"  I  encouraged 
her  a  little,  and  left  her.  The  wedding  took 
place  a  month  afterward  ;  my  new  clothes  fitted 
me  perfectly  ;  it  was  a  glorious  procession.  As 
I  got  into  the  carriage  with  her  to  drive  back 
from  the  church,  I  said:  "I  enjoyed  that.  I 
should  like  to  do  that  every  day  of  my  life." 
She  replied :  "Ah,  but  it  was  a  great  trial  to 
poor,  little,  nervous  me  !"  Then  she  did  up  her 
face  into  kinks  to  make  it  look  more  childishly 
winsome.  I  mention  this  to  explain  that  we 
were  never  very  well  suited  to  each  other;  in 
fact,  we  are  not  at  present  on  good  terms  at  all. 
I  had  simply  married  to  satisfy  my  processional 
instinct.  I  am  very  much  ashamed  of  myself. 
Since  then  I  have  had  very  few  opportunities 
to  indulge  myself,  but  one  has  little  processions 
from  the  drawing  room  to  the  dining  room  be- 
fore dinner,  and  these  help  to  brighten  my 
existence.  Processions  alone  have  any  charm 
for  me  now.  and  I  am  thinking  of  buying  a  cir- 


THE  PROCESSIONAL  INSTINCT.  89 


cus  and  taking  it  round  the  district.  Amabel 
says  that  if  I  do  she  shall  refuse  to  come  with 
me;  which  is  another  argument  in  favor  of  the 
plan.  I  have  promised  her  a  capital  funeral, 
but  she  is  selfish  about  this  point.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say  for  myself;  I  am  enslaved  and  worth- 
less. I  desire,  however,  that  you  will  destroy 
this  letter  after  reading  it,  as  I  do  not  wish  the 
facts  to  be  generally  known. 
Yours,  etc., 

ALGERNON  MUMPLIN. 


VI.— BINLEY'S   CIGARS. 
MY  DEAR  SIR: 

I  am  acquainted  with  you  through  your  capi- 
tal handbook  "The  Complete  Liar."  In  it  you 
point  out  that  the  last  two  things  about  which 
a  man  begins  to  be  truthful  are  his  wine  and  his 
tobacco.  I  can  almost  fancy  that  you  must 
have  heard  my  friend  Binley  talk  about  his 
grocer's  amontillado ;  as  for  the  tobacco,  it  is  my 
belief  that  the  recording  angel  shed  tears  over 
the  invention  of  the  cigar;  Binley  is  just  as 
imaginative  about  his  cigars  as  about  his  wine. 
He  is  monstrous.  His  sins  cry  out  for  confes- 
sion, and  I  long  to  confess  them  to  somebody. 
"Never,"  you  remark  in  your  "Curiosities  of 
Humanity,"  "does  a  man  feel  more  pure  and 
clean  than  when  he  is  confessing  the  sins  of  his 
intimate  friend" ;  you  are  right  there.  At  this 
moment,  when  I  am  about  to  narrate  the  mon- 
strous conduct  of  Alexander  Binley,  I  feel  like 


BINLEY' S  CIGARS.  91 

a  virginal  lily  growing  in  the  snow-covered 
garden  of  a  young  laundress. 

Well,  sir,  it  began  one  night  in  Binley's 
rooms,  when  he  produced  and  put  upon  the 
table  a  box  containing  twenty-five  of  the  largest 
cigars  that  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life.  They 
were  the  kind  of  cigar  that  could  only  be 
smoked  by  the  corpulent  lessee  of  a  music  hall 
while  in  the  act  of  wearing  a  diamond  center 
stud.  There  were  several  of  us  there,  and  we 
looked  at  those  cigars  suspiciously. 

"Are  those  cigars?"  asked  Drisfield  sadly. 

"What  did  you  think  they  were?"  retorted 
Binley,  preparing  to  be  offended. 

"I  hoped  they  were  just  a  horrid  dream." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you  ?  Perhaps  you'll  allow 
me  to  tell  you  a  thing  or  two  about  these 
cigars." 

"Do,"  said  Drisfield,  "only — only  make  it 
end  happily  if  you  can.  And  would  you  mind 
if  I  sat  somewhere  where  I  couldn't  see  them? 
They  get  on  my  nerves." 

Drisfield  and  Binley  are  always  about  to- 
gether, but  they  are  never  decently  civil  to 


92  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

each  other.  They  have  been  intimate  enemies 
for  the  last  ten  years.  Drisfield  is  inclined  to 
be  a  little  pessimistic.  "I  associate  with  Bin- 
ley,"  he  has  frequently  explained  to  me  in 
Binley's  presence,  "because  he  is  a  living  con- 
firmation of  all  the  saddest  opinions  concerning 
human  nature." 

On  this  occasion,  Binley  talked  at  length 
about  these  cigars.  There  was  no  such  thing, 
he  informed  us,  as  a  bad  cigar  in  the  extra  sizes ; 
those  who  bought  cheap  cigars  always  inquired 
for  the  smallest  sizes,  and  manufacturers  acted 
accordingly.  These  were  not  Havana  cigars; 
the  Havana  fields  were  effete,  and  the  crops 
were  tainted  from  the  use  of  manures;  these 
were  from  virgin  fields  in  Jamaica.  Then  Bin- 
ley  handed  them  round ;  we  all  happened  to 
be  smoking  pipes  at  the  time,  and  had  to  refuse 
them.  We  all,  with  the  exception  of  Drisfield, 
thanked  him  courteously. 

"The  taste  of  them  is  perfectly  heavenly," 
said  Binley,  who  had  just  lighted  one. 

"And  the  smell  of  them  is  perfectly  devilish," 
said  Drisfield.  "Life  is  full  of  such  paradoxes." 


BINLEY'S  CIGARS.  93 


Three  weeks  after  this  I  happened  to  be 
again  in  Binley's  rooms.  He  has  no  memory, 
and  just  as  I  was  leaving  he  produced  that 
very  identical  box  of  misfortunes  once  more. 
"Smoke  one  of  these  on  your  way  back,"  he 
said.  "They  are  from  Mexico — the  home  of 
the  mustang,  and  the  finest  tobacco-growing 
country  in  the  world."  It  hardly  seemed 
worth  while  to  call  him  a  liar.  I  slipped  one  of 
the  large  cigars  into  my  pocket,  and  thanked 
him.  When  I  got  home  I  flung  it  into  the  fire- 
place. The  fire  was  out,  and  on  the  following 
morning  I  found  that  my  servant  had  picked 
out  the  cigar,  dusted  it,  and  placed  it  on  the 
mantelpiece.  It  lay  there  like  a  vast,  un- 
healthy threat.  I  carried  it  into  my  bedroom, 
with  a  vague  notion  that  it  might  be  useful  in 
case  of  burglary. 

When  Binley  came  to  see  me  some  time 
afterward,  I  fetched  out  his  own  cigar  and 
offered  it  to  him.  "I  know  you  like  the  large 
sizes,"  I  said. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  answered  pleasantly,  "you  are 
thinking  of  the  weeds  my  uncle  in  India  sent 


94      PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

me.  India  produces  the  very  cream  of  cigars, 
of  course."  He  held  the  big  cigar  up  to  his  ear 
and  rolled  it  meditatively  between  his  finger  and 
thumb.  "You'll  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  this 
is  not  quite  in  condition  yet.  I  can't  smoke  a 
cigar  that  is  not  in  condition.  Those  large 
Indian  cigars  of  mine  were  the  '85  crop." 

I  tried  him  with  the  same  cigar  again  three 
days  afterward,  having  cut  one  inch  off  the  end 
of  it  with  a  sharp  knife  in  order  to  alter  its 
appearance.  This  time  he  found  it  to  be  in 
perfect  condition.  But  he  would  not  smoke  it. 
"I  still  have  a  few  left,"  he  said,  "from  a  box  of 
twenty-five  which  originally  belonged  to  Bis- 
marck, and  were  given  by  him  to  a  cousin  of 
mine  in  the  diplomatic  service.  They  are  three 
inches  longer  than  these,  and  they  spoil  me  for 
all  other  cigars.  They  are — well,  they  are 
imperial."  Binley  has  no  memory  and  no  con- 
science. I  cut  one  more  inch  off  that  cigar  and 
offered  it  to  him  again  when  I  found  an  oppor- 
tunity. Before  lighting  it  he  told  me  that  he 
had  just  two  left  from  a  box  of  twenty-five 
which  had  paid  no  duty.  "I  forget  the  name  of 


BINLEY' S   CIGARS.  95 

the  brand,"  he  said,  "but  they  are  three  times 
the  size  of  this.  They  are  reserved  by  the 
Havana  planters  for  their  own  use,  but  an 
elder  brother  of  mine  got  hold  of  them  through 
a  Creole  woman  who  was — well — rather  de- 
voted to  him ;  and  he  smuggled  them  across — 
he's  rather  a  devil,  I'm  afraid."  Binley  lit  that 
remnant  of  his  own  cigar,  took  three  dra\vs,  and 
then  put  it  down.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "but 
those  weeds  of  mine  have  created  in  me  a  sort 
of  distaste  for  ordinary  tobacco.  Don't  be 
offended."  Comment  is  useless;  but  I  may 
add  that  before  Binley  commenced  the  habit 
of  smoking,  he  was  fairly  truthful.  I  have 
since  joined  an  anti-tobacco  league. 
Faithfully  yours, 

PSEUDONYMOUS. 


VII.— THE  VICTIM    OF   INDI- 
RECTNESS. 

[/  have  thought  it  advisable  to  omit  certain  portions  of  this 
letter.  I  have  added  a  note  in  parenthesis  wherever  I  have 
made  such  omissions.] 

MY  DEAR  FIRST  AUTHORITY: 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  author  of 
"Curiosities  of  Humanity"  must  be  interested  in 
the  exceedingly  strange  story  which  I  have  to 
tell.  For  me,  I  fear  that  the  story  has  ended 
fatally ;  to  others  it  would  perhaps  serve  as  a 
warning,  but  do  not  let  it  be  made  public. 

I  suffer,  sir,  and  have  always  suffered,  from 
the  sin  of  Indirectness.  My  process  is  always 
a  curve — never  a  straight  line.  I  attach  im- 
mense importance  to  the  means  and  generally 
miss  the  end.  There  are  people  who,  if  they 
had  a  piece  of  bad  news  to  tell  a  given  man  C., 
would  ask  A.  to  tell  B.  to  break  it  to  him  ;  there 
are  men  who  will  buy  a  clumsy  piece  of  mech- 
anism to  perform  some  action — such  as  the 
96 


THE    VICTIM  OF  INDIRECTNESS.  97 

making  of  the  cigarette — which  can  be  done 
much  more  easily  and  quickly  by  the  common 
human  fingers.  If  they  were  traveling  from 
London  to  the  North  Pole,  they  would  go  via 
the  Equator.  These  are  lesser'  instances  of 
that  same  Indirectness  which  has  brought  me 
to  a  condition  that  may  fairly  be  described  as 
desperate. 

You  must  know,  sir,  that  the  only  woman 
who  has  ever  really  touched  my  heart  is  Ara- 
bella Lee.  Of  her  personal  appearance  I  can 
only  say  that  (a  column  and  a  half  is  omitted 
here.  The  reader  can  flavor  to  suit  his  own 
taste}.  Can  you  wonder  at  the  effect  that  such 
a  woman  would  have  on  my  very  deepest  feel- 
ings? When  the  Mushleys  asked  me  to  their 
place  in  September,  I  asked  them  to  let  me 
leave  it  open  for  a  few  days — an  impertinence 
which  is  not  uncommon  among  the  Indirect — 
in  order  that  I  might  first  find  out  whether 
Miss  Lee  would  be  there.  I  found  that  Miss 
Lee  would  be  staying  at  the  house,  and  then  I 
accepted.  There  are  three  Miss  Mushleys — 
Mary,  Martha,  and  Margaret.  They  are  much 


98  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

alike.  Each  is  angular  and  spectacled,  looks 
like  the  rough  sketch  of  a  scientific  diagram, 
and  has  a  complexion  like  a  bath  towel. 

I  had  not  stopped  in  that  house  for  a  week, 
before  I  found  out  that,  in  consequence  of  my 
Indirectness,  the  one  person  to  whom  I  could 
not  declare  my  passion  for  Miss  Lee  was  Miss 
Lee  herself.  I  could  have  told  anyone  else 
about  it.  I  could  even  have  confided  in  the 
butler,  who  was  friendly,  as  butlers  go.  But  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  tell  Miss  Lee  herself. 
One  day  I  saw  her  petting  a  collie — she  is  fond 
of  dogs — and  I  noticed  that  she  kissed  it  on  the 
neck.  The  collie  went  out  into  the  garden,  and 
a  minute  or  two  afterward  I  followed  it.  It 
pleased  my  Indirectness  to  think  that  I  could 
kiss  the  same  dog  on  the  same  spot  that  she 
had  kissed.  I  tracked  the  beast  into  the 
stables.  The  temper  of  collies  is  proverbially 
uncertain — or,  perhaps,  I  got  hold  of  the  wrong 
dog — but  anyhow  (a  few  lines  of  quite  unneces- 
sary detail  are  omitted  here).  I  had  them  re- 
paired by  the  local  tailor,  but  he  did  not  make 
a  good  job  of  it. 


THE    VICTIM  OF  INDIRECTNESS.  99 

On  the  last  day  but  one  of  my  visit  Miss 
Mary  Mushley  and  myself  were  down  to  break- 
fast rather  earlier  than  most  of  them.  We  wan- 
dered out  in  the  garden,  and  I  experienced  a 
desire  to  confide  to  Miss  Mary  Mushley  my 
passion  for  Miss  Arabella  Lee.  The  inevitable 
result  followed.  I  was  very  incoherent  and 
indirect,  and  I  was  badly  misunderstood.  I 
can  just  remember  her  saying,  "Yes,  Charles,  I 
will  marry  you ;  I  have  always  loved  you." 
But  1  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  ask  her 
to  say  nothing  to  anyone  at  present,  and  then 
I  went  back  to  the  house.  It  was  awful. 
Partly  from  Indirectness  and  partly  from  ordi- 
nary civility  I  had  engaged  myself  to  the  wrong 
woman.  I  determined  to  ask  Martha  Mushley 
to  tell  her  sister  Mary  of  the  mistake.  I  felt 
quite  unable  to  tell  Mary  myself. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  the  men  were  all  out, 
I  managed  to  get  Miss  Martha  Mushley  alone 
in  the  billiard  room.  When  our  game  was  over 
I  began  my  explanation : 

"I  am  afraid  that  this  morning  I  led  your 
sister  Mary  to  believe  that  I  loved  her.  Much 


100  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

as  I  admire  her,  I  do  not  love  her.  I  was  only 
trying  to  confide  to  her  my  passion  for  another 
—you  must  know — you  must  have  seen  whom 
I " 

"Oh,  my  poor,  dear  boy !"  she  murmured. 
"Yes,  I  knew  it  all  along.  Yet  can  such  joy  be 
mine?  Oh,  to  be  loved  by  you,  Charles,  my 
Charles " 

"Yes,"  I  gasped,  "you've  got  it.  Keep  our 
secret." 

I  got  out  of  the  room  somehow.  My  nerve 
was  all  gone,  and  I  felt  desperate.  After  din- 
ner I  found  myself  in  the  conservatory  with 
the  third  sister,  Margaret.  I  tried  to  tell  her 
what  had  happened ;  she  burst  into  tears ;  and 
before  I  knew  where  I  was,  I  had  asked  her  to 
marry  me  and  she  had  accepted.  During  the 
rest  of  that  evening  I  suffered  great  agonies. 
It  may  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  engaged  to  the  one 
woman  whom  you  love.  But  I,  sir,  am  en- 
gaged, under  the  bond  of  secrecy,  to  a  syndi- 
cate !  Three  white  handkerchiefs  were  waved 
at  me  from  three  different  windows  as  I  drove 
away  early  on  the  following  morning. 


THE    VICTIM  OF  INDIRECTNESS.         IOI 

But  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it.  I  feel  that  I 
have  lost  Arabella  Lee.  I  can  imagine  even 
now  that  I  see  her,  she  is  (another  column  of 
description  is  here  omitted").  And  she  will  hear 
of  my  conduct  toward  the  three  Mushley  girls, 
and  despise  me.  I  hesitate  between  suicide, 
a  cattle  ranch,  or  a  Carmelite  brotherhood. 
Even  in  my  misery  my  Indirectness  follows 
me.  Can  you  suggest  anything? 

Yours  in  desperation, 

CHARLES  GINLAKE. 


SKETCHES  IN  LONDON. 


I.— UNDER  THE  CLOCK. 

ONE  railway  station  is  very  much  like  an- 
other. They  are  of  different  sizes  but  of  the 
same  quality,  and  the  likeness  extends  even  to 
small  details.  There  is  probably  not  a  single 
station  in  the  kingdom  on  the  platform  of  which 
there  are  not  at  this  moment  two  or  more  milk 
cans  standing.  I  have  no  statistics  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  I  may  be  wrong,  but  that  is  my  im- 
pression. There  is  even  a  distinct  similarity 
between  all  porters ;  their  voices  are  all  husky 
and  confidential,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  why  this 
must  be  so.  Of  course  some  stations  have  dis- 
tinctive features.  Waterloo  and  Willesden,  for 
instance,  are  remarkable  for  their  structural 
subtleties.  Charing  Cross  is  a  favorite  meeting- 
place.  It  is  central  and  convenient  in  some 
respects,  but  better  meeting-places  might  be 
found.  If,  instead  of  waiting  under  the  clock, 
one  waited  in  the  very  center  of  the  road  out- 


106  PLAYTHINGS  AXD  PARODIES. 

side  the  station,  one  would  be  only  a  little  more 
in  the  way  of  other  people. 

But  it  would  be  inaccurate  to  say  that  there 
is  nothing  to  interest  or  occupy  the  mind  while 
waiting  at  Charing  Cross,  although  much  de- 
pends on  the  mind.  "The  proper  study  of 
mankind  is  man,"  and  there  are  plenty  of  men 
and  other  automatic  machines  on  the  platform. 
One  or  two  of  these  latter  are  a  little  curious. 
One  machine  delivers  four  •  different  photo- 
graphs, but  it  is  impossible  to  say  which  of  the 
four  it  will  deliver  next.  You  may  get  a  pho- 
tograph, I  noticed,  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  or 
you  may  get  one  of  Miss  Bessie  Bellwood.  I 
thought — it  may  have  been  fancy — that  I  de- 
tected a  smile  on  the  slot  of  this  machine.  An 
automatic  "Oracle"  is  an  appeal  from  modern 
civilization  to  ancient  superstition.  It  pro- 
fesses to  answer  any  question  you  may  select 
from  a  number  printed  upon  it.  I  gave  it  a 
penny,  and  it  at  once  told  me  a  distinct  lie,  and 
told  it  without  a  blush.  It  is  an  immoral  ma- 
chine, and  its  charge  is  far  too  high.  I  have 
had  a  better  lie  told  me  by  a  human  boy, 


UNDER  A    CLOCK.  107 

simply  for  the  small  profit  which  is  to  be  made 
by  the  sale  of  one  half-penny  paper. 

Every  crowd  in  London  is  interesting,  but  the 
crowd  at  a  railway  station  reveals  most  of  its 
real  nature.  If  you  would  see  a  man  as  he 
really  is,  see  him  when  he  is  trying  to  catch  a 
train,  or  when  he  has  just  missed  it.  The 
lounger  in  Piccadilly,  the  theatrical  personage  in 
the  Strand,  the  journalist  in  Fleet  Street,  the 
Jew  in  Whitechapel,  all  hide  something  from 
us.  But  the  test  of  the  railway  station  puts 
aside  the  veil;  and  if  the  man  is  by  nature 
mean,  or  impolite,  or  bad-tempered,  his  weak- 
ness or  his  baseness  is  revealed.  It  is  useless 
to  attempt  an  estimate  of  any  man's  character 
from  his  deliberate  actions;  look  at  him  when 
he  is  in  a  hurry,  or  when  he  is  irritated.  Put 
him  in  a  crowd  in  front  of  a  booking-office 
with  two  minutes  in  which  to  catch  the  last 
train  ;  or  leave  him  on  the  platform  from  which 
the  last  train  has  just  retired.  A  woman  does 
not  generally  look  her  best  when  she  is  hurried. 
But  the  ordinary  passenger  allows  little  time 
for  the  abominably  curious  to  become  inter- 


Io8  PL  A  ¥ THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

ested  in  him.  Before  we  can  conjecture  where 
he  comes  from,  or  whither  he  is  going,  or  why 
he  is  doing  it,  he  vanishes  from  our  sight.  We 
have  more  time  to  watch  those  who  have  made 
appointments  under  the  clock,  who  wander 
backward  and  forward  from  the  hotel  to  the 
road,  and  from  the  road  to  the  hotel,  pondering 
upon  the  sins  of  unpunctuality  and  untruthful- 
ness,  or  seduced  into  buying  books  which  they 
do  not  want  from  the  stall  behind  them.  If 
ever  I  write  a  book,  I  should  like  one  of  the 
young  men  at  the  Charing  Cross  bookstall  to  re- 
view  it  in  one  or  more  of  our  leading  journals, 
and  to  have  an  interest  in  its  sale.  It  is  a  great 
consolation  when  one  is  waiting  to  see  that  oth- 
ers have  to  wait  as  well ;  but  it  is  maddening  to 
find  that  others  have  not  to  wait  so  long.  A 
respectable,  middle-aged  City  man  came  here 
five  minutes  ago.  I  know  nothing  of  him  ex- 
cept that  he  only  had  to  wait  five  minutes,  and 
I  have  had  to  wait  twenty-five ;  but  that  is 
enough.  I  hate  him,  and  desire  his  blood. 
One  notices  the  gradual  change  in  a  man's  ex- 
pression as  he  waits  here.  He  looks  brisk  and 


L'.YDER  A    CLOCK.  109 

bright  as  he  enters  the  station.  He  glances  at 
the  clock,  and  finds  that  he  is  three  minutes  too 
early.  He  does  not  mind  waiting  three  min- 
utes. He  lights  a  cigarette,  buys  a  latest  edi- 
tion, and  hurries  through  the  news.  He  has 
plenty  of  time,  if  he  only  knew  it,  to  learn  the 
greater  part  of  that  paper  by  heart.  But  he 
does  not  know  it ;  he  has  a  simple  faith  that 
the  other  man  will  come  at  the  time  appointed. 
Gradually  his  brightness  changes  to  irritation. 
Twenty  minutes  have  passed,  and  the  irritation 
becomes  dejection.  Ten  minutes  afterward  he 
walks  out  of  the  station,  filled  with  impotent 
wrath  and  wild  despair.  Two  minutes  after 
that,  the  man  for  whom  he  was  waiting  turns 
up.  It  is  in  this  way  that  cynics  are  made. 
The  clock  at  Charing  Cross  probably  has  very 
few  delusions — it  sees  so  much. 

I  have  tried  occasionally  to  conjecture  from 
the  man  who  waits  the  sex  and  appearance  of 
the  person  who  is  to  meet  him  ;  and,  as  a  gen- 
eral rule,  I  have  been  wrong.  Three  men,  who 
were  here  the  other  day,  essayed  a  more  diffi- 
cult task — I  was  told  this  afterward  by  one  of 


no  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

them.  As  they  stood  chatting  together,  one  of 
them  noticed  two-thirds  of  a  cigarette  lying  on 
the  platform  at  his  feet. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "she  came  sooner  than  he 
expected.  He  would  never  have  lit  it  if  he 
had  known." 

"No,"  said  the  second.  "He  was  only  a 
beginner  and  he  couldn't  stand  any  more  of  it." 

"I  think  you're  wrong,"  said  the  third. 
"He  dropped  it  by  accident,  and  was  too  proud 
to  pick  it  up." 

Every  one  of  the  three  was  confident  that  his 
conjecture  was  the  correct  one ;  and  they  stood 
there  for  a  minute,  urging  their  respective 
views  with  some  little  heat  and  animation. 
At  a  short  distance  from  them  stood  a  couple 
of  boys,  and  one  of  them  had  been  watching 
the  group. 

"Bill,"  he  said  to  his  friend,  "look  at  them 
three  toffs — hall  of  'em  fightin'  over  'alf  a  ciga- 
rette. The  big  'un  found  it  first,  but  the  others 
were  on  him  afore  he  could  grab  it." 

It  is  impossible  to  conjecture  with  certainty, 
even  from  the  most  insufficient  data.  I  turn  to 


UNDER  A    CLOCK.  HI 

the  different  notices  on  the  walls.  I  am 
hemmed  in  by  prohibitions  and  warnings.  I 
may  not  travel  fraudulently;  I  may  not  have 
my  pockets  picked ;  I  am  requested  not  to 
touch  the  scales,  I  am  allured  by  advertise- 
ments, and  I  am  still  more  allured  by  time- 
tables. I  glance  once  more  at  that  clock; 
calmly  and  dispassionately  it  tells  me  that  I 
have  now  wasted  thirty-five  minutes  of  my  valu- 
able time.  I  might,  it  is  true,  leave  a  message 
for  my  friend  in  the  ingenious  automatic  ma- 
chine which  is  here  for  the  purpose ;  but  he  is 
of  the  country,  and  probably  knows  not  that 
there  is  such  a  thing.  I  possess  one  more 
penny,  and  in  a  desperate  desire  for  something 
to  do,  I  drop  it  into  the  first  slot  I  come  across. 
I  am  now  the  proprietor  of  one  very  small  and 
very  brown  cigar.  I  am  just  wondering  what 
on  earth  to  do  with  it,  when  I  see  my  friend 
approaching  from  the  other  side  of  the  plat- 
form. He  says  that  he  is  very  sorry,  but  he 
does  not  look  it,  and  it  is  difficult  to  believe 
him. 

Later  in  the  day  he  will  be  caused  to  smoke 


112  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

that  very  little  cigar.  I  am  glad  now  that  I 
got  it.  He  is  a  polite  man,  and  he  will  smoke 
all  of  it,  for  I  shall  give  him  no  chance  to  dis- 
pose of  it  surreptitiously.  He  will  be  really 
sorry  then. 


II.-OUTSIDE  A  BOARD  SCHOOL. 

I  HAVE  watched  this  particular  Board  school 
grow.  I  walked  by  it  every  day  when  the  build- 
ing was  mostly  scaffolding  poles,  and  the  play- 
ground was  a  wilderness.  From  constantly  see- 
ing it,  I  came  to  be  interested  in  it.  I  won- 
dered why  the  workmen  who  were  engaged 
upon  it  showed  so  little  enthusiasm.  When 
the  glass  was  at  last  put  in  all  the  windows,  I 
think  I  was  more  delighted  than  the  glazier. 
When  bills  appeared  on  the  walls  announcing 
that  the  school  would  be  opened  in  a  few  days 
for  the  reception  of  children,  it  was  I,  and  not 
the  foreman  of  the  works,  who  felt  most  keenly 
the  joy  of  completion.  The  building  has  a  new 
interest  for  me  now ;  for  it  has  lately  been  see- 
ing a  good  deal  of  the  most  delightful  children. 
It  is  my  privilege  to  see  them  occasionally  as  I 
pass,  to  notice  the  fine  points,  and  not  to  be 
blind  to  that  which  is  less  admirable  in  them. 


H4  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

Their  chief  fault  is  this — they  all  show  their 
real  individuality  in  the  street.  It  is  in  this 
that  they  chiefly  differ  from  you,  the  well-bred 
member  of  the  upper  classes.  For  in  public  you 
are  careful  to  be  as  much  as  possible  like  every- 
body else;  it  is  only  among  intimate  friends 
that  you  offer  an  individuality  for  observation— 
not  always  your  real  individuality.  They  are 
children,  and  in  this  respect  they  know  no  bet- 
ter; if,  when  their  education  stops,  they  still 
have  distinct  personalities  left,  they  will  prob- 
ably have  learned  to  conceal  them,  and  to  con- 
form to  a  type.  Now,  in  other  respects  they  do 
sometimes  try  to  reproduce  some  of  the  quality 
and  the  convictions  of  the  upper  classes,  and  for 
this  we  should  be  thankful.  Let  me  give  two 
instances  which  I  witnessed  outside  my  Board 
school. 

Out  from  the  boys'  entrance  came  a  thin, 
lanky  boy,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  yellow 
complexion.  He  had  apparently  been  getting 
himself  disliked  in  the  playground.  His  clothes 
were  dusty,  and  he  was  breathless.  He  stood  in 
the  street,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  brushed 


OUTSIDE  A    BOARD   SCHOOL.  US 

himself  with  one  hand  in  a  spiritless  fashion. 
He  pulled  his  cap  out  of  his  pocket,  and  was  just 
going  to  put  it  on  his  head,  when  he  saw  a  burly 
boy  coming  out ;  then  he  replaced  the  cap  in 
his  pocket  hurriedly,  for  greater  safety,  I  think. 

"  'Ullo,  'apeny  oice  !"  shouted  the  big  boy  as 
he  hurried  past.  It  was  a  reference  to  the  thin 
boy's  Italian  appearance ;  a  tendency  to  sell  ices 
at  low  rates  in  lower  places  is  the  characteristic 
of  the  Italian  in  England.  The  big  boy  was  so 
big  that  a  retort  would  have  been  dangerous. 
So  the  wretched,  capless,  ill-treated  creature 
smiled.  It  was  the  smile  of  policy — the  smile 
that  is  trying,  and  failing,  to  cover  a  hurt.  I 
have  been  told  that  it  is  sometimes  seen  among 
the  upper  classes. 

The  big  boy  vanished,  and  out  came  another 
tormentor — a  red-haired  boy,  small  and  fat,  in  a 
tight  blue  suit.  He  took  up  his  position  on  the 
curbstone  opposite  to  the  tormented  one,  and 
commenced  by  saying  emphatically : 

"Furriner!" 

"Sossidge !"  was  the  immediate  retort,  a  ref- 
erence to  the  fat  boy's  fatness. 


Il6  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

"Look  'ere,"  said  the  small  boy  with  dignity, 
but  very  little  logical  connection,  "that  aint 
your  father's  'ouse  what  you  lives  in.  'E  aint 
only  got  two  rooms  in  it.  I  knows  yer." 

This  was  apparently  true  and  not  immedi- 
ately answerable.  The  spiritless  "furriner" 
walked  slowly  away.  When  he  had  got  a  few 
yards  off  he  was  so  ill-advised  as  to  turn  round 
and  remark  once  more,  "Sossidge !"  so  the  fat 
boy  picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  at  him,  and 
hit  him. 

On  another  day  I  saw  a  big  girl  of  twelve  or 
thirteen,  with  an  infant  sister,  waiting  outside 
the  girls'  entrance.  She  seemed  a  good-tem- 
pered girl,  and  very  fond  of  her  sister,  a  grave 
little  child  whom  she  called  Hannie.  Down 
the  street  came  another  big  girl,  leading  a  little 
brother,  and  this  couple  also  waited  outside. 
The  two  big  girls  gazed  demurely  at  one  an- 
other without  saying  anything.  Then  they 
both  held  up  their  heads  and  drew  in  their  lips. 
It  was  clear  that  there  was  some  social  barrier 
between  them.  But  the  infants  of  whom  they 
had  charge  were  too  young  to  understand  the 


OUTSIDE  A    BOARD   SCHOOL.  117 

beauty  of  barriers.  In  a  sweet,  unreasonable, 
babyish  way,  the  grave  Hannie  suddenly  smiled, 
and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  little  boy; 
the  little  boy  also  smiled,  and  would  have 
spoken  if  he  had  not  been  roughly  checked : 
"You  aint  never  to  speak  to  that  little  gel." 
Her  elder  sister  spanked  Hannie  for  having 
made  overtures,  and  I  do  not  see  what  else  she 
could  have  done.  Still,  it  was  a  pity  she  had  to 
do  it,  because  I  think  she  was  fond  of  Hannie. 
Two  such  instances  as  these  should  be  cheer- 
ing and  comforting.  They  show  that  at  an 
early  age,  and  comparatively  low  down  in  the 
social  scale,  patriotism  and  our  remarkable  taste 
as  a  nation  may  display  themselves;  but  they 
do  more  than  this.  They  show  that  the  dis- 
grace of  poverty  and  the  existence  of  social  dis- 
tinctions are  recognized.  "You  don't  'ave  yer 
'air  cut  at  a  shop  !"  is  a  sneer  which  I  have  heard 
addressed  by  one  boy  to  a  fellow.  To  a  really 
large  mind  the  poor  attempt  at  economy  must 
have  seemed  mean.  Perhaps  this  is  not  a  very 
close  parallel  to  what  goes  on  in  the  upper 
classes.  The  upper  classes  do  not,  as  the  satir- 


Il8  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

ist  would  have  us  believe,  worship  great  wealth ; 
they  only  make  certain  concessions  to  very 
great  wealth.  But  the  recognition  "of  social  dis- 
tinctions brings  the  Board  school  child  very  near 
to  the  spirit  of  many  delightful  people  who  are 
her  superiors.  It  is  true  that  the  method  of 
conversational  attack  and  retort  which  prevails 
among  Board  strhool  children  is  not  good ;  but, 
in  these  instances,  they  certainly  showed  the 
want  of  good  feeling  which  is  at  the  back  of 
most  epigrams.  They  were  unkind  enough ; 
the  wit  may  follow. 

The  street  games  of  these  children  are  re- 
markable. At  one  time  the  whip-top  prevails, 
and  for  weeks  not  to  own  a  whip-top  is  a  social 
disability.  Then  the  whip-top  disgraces  itself 
in  some  way,  or  becomes  stale,  and  its  name  is 
not  so  much  as  mentioned  in  the  streets.  Tip- 
cat takes  its  place.  There  are  periods  when  no 
one  game  is  in  power,  and  then  one  sees  the 
charm  of  variety.  The  girls  and  the  smaller 
boys  are  mostly  imitative.  They  pretend  to  be 
anything.  That  fat,  sarcastic  boy  to  whom  I 
have  alluded  has  a  marvelous  faculty  for  imita- 


OUTSIDE  A    BOARD   SCHOOL.  119 

tion.  One  day  he  careered  down  the  street  as  a 
remorseless  steam  engine ;  on  the  next  day  he 
put  on  his  cap  inside  out  and  stated  that  he  was 
John  the  Baptist.  The  girls  seem  to  like  play- 
ing at  school  best.  One  girl  is  the  teacher;  the 
rest  are  divided  into  two  classes,  good  girls  and 
bad  girls.  The  good  girls  all  sit  with  their 
hands  folded  and  assume  an  exasperatingly 
meek  expression.  The  teacher  tells  them  that 
they  are  a  comfort  to  her,  and  promises  them 
impossible  rewards.  The  bad  girls  refuse  to  sit 
down,  use  impertinent  language,  and  run  away ; 
the  teacher  captures  them,  and  spanks  them 
most  realistically.  One  day  I  walked  behind  a 
very  little  chubby  girl  of  about  seven,  who  was 
carrying  a  very  large  cat.  The  cat  was  a  dirty 
white,  and  not  happy ;  it  had  an  appointment 
elsewhere,  and  wanted  to  be  off.  "No,  you 
'on't,"  its  chubby  mistress  remarked  at  each 
fresh  struggle.  When  she  arrived  at  the  school 
she  set  the  big  cat  down  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
"Now,  you  silly  'ittle  fool,"  she  said  to  it  sol- 
emnly, '  'you  may  go  'ome."  The  cat  trotted  off, 
looking  pained  and  surprised,  with  its  tail  erect. 


120  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

Sometimes  I  pass  the  school  when  there  are 
no  children  about  outside.  The  windows  are 
open,  and  I  hear  a  chant  of 

"Five  nines'  for'  fi', 
Five  tens'  fifty." 

Their  voices  all  drop  a  tone  on  the  last  word  of 
each  line.  Or  a  question  has  been  asked  which 
I  have  not  been  able  to  hear;  I  only  catch  the 
answering  roar  of  many  voices:  "Tew-an '-six- 
pence," and  for  some  reason  which  I  do  not 
know  I  find  myself  inventing  arithmetical  prob- 
lems to  which  this  answer  would  be  a  correct 
solution.  It  is  often  easier  to  find  a  question 
for  an  answer  than  an  answer  for  a  question. 


III.— A  SUNLESS  DAWN. 

SATURDAY  night  is  a  busy  night;  but  nearly 
everyone  had  done  with  their  work  or  their 
play,  and  had  gone  to  bed,  as  I  came  up  Church 
Street,  toward  the  Embankment,  at  two  o'clock 
on  the  Sunday  morning.  Overhead  was  a  sky 
of  leaden  gray,  without  a  star  to  be  seen  ;  a  few 
spots  of  rain  fell  at  intervals.  The  street  was 
almost  silent ;  the  sharp  click  of  a  footstep  on 
the  pavement  seemed  an  outrage  on  the  still- 
ness, and  one  tried  to  walk  more  quietly.  At  a 
distant  corner  two  policemen  had  met,  and  had 
stopped  for  a  chat ;  one  could  hear  their  gruff 
voices  with  grotesque  distinctness.  A  little 
farther  on  a  woman,  old  and  painted,  belated 
and  hopeless,  had  sunk  down  to  rest  on  a  door- 
step. The  lamplight  fell  full  upon  her  face. 
She  had  pushed  her  bonnet  a  little  back  over 
her  untidy  yellow  hair;  her  head  rested  on  one 
hand.  She  sat  mute  and  motionless  in  her  rags 


122  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

and  finery,  her  bleared  eyes  wide  open,  with  no 
expression  on  her  coarse  features.  In  most  of 
the  houses  the  lights  were  all  out ;  but  now  and 
then  one  saw  the  cheerful  glare,  and  marked, 
perhaps,  a  shadow  cross  the  blind.  What  kept 
them  up  so  late?  Here,  possibly,  some  joyless 
dissipation,  and  there  some  entrancing  story ! 
or  there,  behind  the  small  upper  window,  some- 
one may  have  been  watching  by  a  bedside,  long- 
ing for  the  dawn.  In  the  church  tower  at  the 
street  corner  the  lighted  clock  showed  that  it 
was  not  long  to  wait  now  before  the  hour  at 
which  the  night  and  morning  had  agreed  to 
meet. 

I  came  out  into  Cheyne  Walk,  the  abode  of 
genius,  and  crossed  the  deserted  road,  and 
watched  the  river.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  it 
moving  immediately  below  me,  and  one  could 
only  hear  the  swirl  of  the  water  against  the  piles 
of  the  bridges,  or  the  gentler  lapping  where  it 
licked  the  stretches  of  mud  and  shingle,  left  bare 
at  the  low  tide ;  but  a  little  farther  away,  in  the 
broken  bars  of  crimson  or  yellow  light  reflected 
from  the  lamps  on -pier,  or  bridge,  or  barge,  one 


A    SUNLESS  DAWN.  123 

could  see  ripple  chase  ripple  in  endless  haste, 
coming  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  bar  of  light, 
only  to  vanish  in  darkness  again.  In  that  grim 
brick  building  on  the  farther  side,  the  rows  of 
windows  were  all  lighted  up  ;  there,  at  least,  rest 
had  not  yet  begun.  I  heard  a  step  behind  me, 
and  looked  round.  It  was  only  a  midnight 
loafer,  who  came  slouching  slowly  toward  me 
out  of  the  darkness.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  with 
one  hand,  as  if  he  had  been  asleep.  His  face 
was  lean,  dirty,  and  unshaven,  with  an  ugly  scar 
on  one  cheek.  He  held  a  short  clay  pipe,  bowl 
downward,  in  his  mouth  ;  but  it  was  empty,  and 
the  man  looked  like  one  bereft  of  all  comfort. 
He  stopped  for  a  second  or  two,  to  survey  me 
carefully;  and  he  was  displeased  with  me.  He 
grunted  disapproval,  and  slouched  away  into  the 
darkness  again,  while  I  turned  eastward,  along 
Chelsea  Reach.  On  the  opposite  shore  the 
trees  in  Battersea  Park  seemed  a  long,  low  line 
of  darkness,  merging  indistinctly  into  the  paler 
darkness  beyond.  Chelsea  Bridge  in  the  dis- 
tance looked  a  maze  of  lights  and  shadows  flung 
across  the  river.  A  late  hansom  flashed  past  me 


124  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

on  the  road ;  and  as  the  rattle  of  wheels  died 
away,  I  heard  suddenly  a  sound  like  a  woman 
sobbing.  It  was,  of  course,  only  a  cat — a  stray, 
wicked,  London  cat.  Cats  in  the  daytime  are 
nothing  but  cats,  but  at  night  a  strain  of  morbid 
humanity  seems  to  come  out  in  them,  and  at 
times  they  catch  the  exact  tones  of  the  human 
voice. 

The  road  now  was  quite  deserted ;  but  do 
no  ghosts  walk  here?  For  suddenly  I  thought 
how,  not  very  many  years  ago,  one  who  well 
knew  the  small  hours  might  often  have  walked 
up  and  down  this  pavement  at  some  such  time 
— one  whose  eye  would  have  missed  no  beauti- 
ful detail  in  the  scene,  whose  wearied  mind 
would  have  drunk  "like  some  sharp  strengthen- 
ing wine  .  .  .  the  stillness  and  the  broken 
lights."  Others,  too,  there  might  be,  and  one 
who — so  the  fancy  takes  me — would  ever  walk 
alone,  a  fierce,  ardent,  rugged  philosopher,  still 
but  partly  understood  by  the  best  of  us. 

Already  it  was  growing  lighter.  The  trees  in 
Battersea  Park  were  more  distinct,  and  now  I 
could  dimlv  see  the  line  of  shore  beneath  them 


A    SUNLESS  DAWN.  125 

and  the  black  barges  waiting  there.  With  a 
quick,  business-like  step,  a  young  man  hurried 
past  me,  with  a  long  pole  in  his  hands,  putting 
out  the  Embankment  lights.  The  gray  of  the 
sky  grew  paler  and  pinker,  and  those  dark 
smudges  on  it  would  soon  be  seen  to  be  clouds, 
blown  quickly  along  by  the  cold  morning  wind. 
As  I  passed  on  to  the  Chelsea  Bridge,  I  noticed 
the  strange  groups  of  people  on  the  seats  be- 
tween the  trees.  Most  of  them  looked  as  if 
they  were  used  to  it,  and  were  snoring  peace- 
fully; but  one  or  two  were  amateurs,  appar- 
ently, and  had  not  caught  the  trick  of  it  yet. 
These  were  not  asleep,  although  they  looked 
tired  enough  as  they  sat  there  gazing  blankly 
toward  the  river. 

I  stood  on  Chelsea  Bridge.  At  the  farther 
end  a  little  group  had  gathered  round  a  brightly 
lighted  coffee-stall ;  men  were  talking  together 
in  subdued  voices.  Far  away  in  the  east  it  came 
creeping  up  the  sky,  the  gray  dawn.  There  was 
to  be  no  gorgeous  display  of  brightness  and 
color;  all  was  cold  and  cheerless.  In  the  Park 
a  thrush  had  woke  up,  and  sang  alone.  Then 


126  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

the  other  birds  joined  it,  thrush  and  linnet  to- 
gether, singing  joyously.  It  was  cold  and  cheer- 
less enough,  but  it  was  morning — the  morning 
of  a  day  for  rest ;  and  this  was  their  hymn  of 
praise.  As  I  stood  there,  listening  to  the  birds, 
some  women  reeled  out  from  one  of  the  side 
streets  on  to  the  Embankment.  They  were 
shrieking  abuse  at  one  another,  swearing  at  the 
top  of  their  ugly  voices.  On  the  one  side  of  the 
river  the  birds  had  woke  up  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing; on  the  other  side  were  these  terrible 
women  staggering  away  from  their  Saturday 
night.  I  hope  the  birds  could  not  hear  them. 
I  waited  till  the  last  bad  word  had  died  away 
in  "the  distance,  and  then  I  turned  homeward. 
It  was  quite  light  now.  One  could  see  the  blue 
lobelias  in  the  Embankment  garden;  and  the 
few  lamps  which  were  still  alight  on  the  river 
looked  pale  and  faint.  Some  men  hurried  past 
to  their  work  on  the  line.  The  policemen 
looked  sleepy,  and  were  not  nearly  so  interested 
in  me  as  they  had  appeared  to  be  an  hour  or 
two  before ;  but  a  small  black  cat  followed  me 
down  the  street  for  some  way,  keeping  twenty 


A    SUNLESS  DAWN.  127 

or  thirty  yards  behind  me.  He  thought,  pos- 
sibly, that  I  was  going  round  with  the  milk,  and 
that  there  might  be  chances  for  a  cat  of  some 
spirit  and  enterprise.  He  was  a  young,  san- 
guine, ignorant  cat,  and  when  he  discovered  at 
last  that  I  had  no  milk  cans  with  me  he  got 
very  unhappy.  He  went  off  and  sat  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road  by  himself,  and  pitied  himself, 
and  mewed  wearily.  When  I  saw  him  last  he 
was  still  sitting  there,  and  still  complaining,  as  I 
fancied,  of  the  generally  unsatisfactory  nature 
of  everything. 


IV. -NO  THOROUGHFARE. 

IT  cheered  me  to  read  that  the  Fulham  Road 
was  closed.  It  was  only  that  morning  that  my 
omnibus  had  gone  exceedingly  deviously  be- 
cause Fleet  Street  was  up.  I  liked  to  think  that 
others  had  to  suffer  inconvenience — I  mean,  that 
I  could  sympathize  with  them  over  an  annoy- 
ance which  I  myself  had  felt.  As  I  went  far- 
ther on,  I  reflected  that  I  was  going  where 
neither  cab  nor  omnibus  could  follow  me,  and  I 
began  to  realize  what  the  feelings  of  the  privi- 
leged classes  must  be ;  nor  was  I  only  pleased 
at  the  extension  of  my  sympathies — all  around 
me  were  workmen  doing  the  most  interesting 
things ;  the  road  was  putting  pff  the  old  mac- 
adam and  putting  on  the  new  wood  pavement ; 
and  one  could  see  all  this  without  paying  any- 
thing. The  cheapness  of  the  spectacle  allured 
me,  and  I  have  since  enjoyed  it  frequently.  I 
have  even  fancied  at  times  that  I  have  found 


NO    THOROUGHFARE.  129 

here  a  salutary  change  of  air;  the  smell  of  tar 
has  much  the  same  simplicity  and  directness 
that  may  be  found  in  the  smell  of  a  village  duck 
pond;  the  most  rural  road  could  not  be  more 
impassable  than  this ;  in  the  most  retired  ham- 
let it  could  not  be  more  difficult  to  hire  a  cab. 
I  liked  best  to  watch  the  men  at  work.  One 
sees  the  road  in  every  stage  of  completion.  In 
one  section  you  hear  the  rhythmical  beat  of  the 
hammers  on  the  iron  spikes  that  loosen  the  old 
road,  the  click  of  picks,  and  the  scrape  of  shov- 
els. It  is  work  which  calls  forth  great  energy 
from  the  workers,  and  which  it  is  inspiriting  to 
watch.  To  see  other  people  working  hard  is 
always  exhilarating.  In  another  section  the  old 
material  has  all  been  cleared  away,  and  there  is 
abed  of  cement,  wet,  smooth,  and  shining,  wait- 
ing to  receive  the  wooden  blocks.  These  blocks 
are  piled  up  in  a  low  wall  running  along  the  edge 
of  the  pavement.  In  a  third  section  the  blocks 
are  being  put  down ;  occasionally  a  workman 
chops  a  piece  off  a  block  to  make  it  fit  better. 
This  practice  does  not  seem  quite  fair,  until 
one  remembers  that  this  is  not  a  puzzle  or  an 


130  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

exercise  for  ingenuity.  In  another  place  a  sort 
of  thick  black  soup  is  being  ladled  out  of  cal- 
drons, and  swept  over  the  surface  of  the  blocks 
which  have  been  already  laid  down.  I  have  not 
used  the  technical  terms  in  describing  this 
road-making,  because  I  thought  that  the  aver- 
age reader  might  not  understand  them ;  also, 
because  I  do  not  happen  to  know  them  myself. 
There  are  plenty  of  spectators  there,  and  they 
are  mostly  critical.  I  noticed  two  boys  of  ten 
or  eleven,  who  seemed  to  know  all  about  it. 
The  leading  spirit  of  the  two  was  smoking  a 
cigarette,  and  seemed  to  feel  his  own  impor- 
tance ;  but  the  world  had  apparently  few  other 
delusions  for  him.  He  might  condescend  to 
watch  the  making  of  a  new  road,  but  he  was  not 
optimistic  or  enthusiastic  about  it.  In  fact, 
he  looked  almost  sorrowfully  at  the  gangs  of 
workmen. 

"They  'ont  get  it  done  in  theer  corntrac* 
toime.  They  cawnt  do  it,  Bill." 

"Cawnt  they?"  said  Bill.  The  knowledge  of 
affairs  shown  by  the  other's  remark,  and  also  by 
his  cigarette,  seemed  to  make  a  spirit  of  emula- 


NO    THOROUGHFARE. 


:>n  in  Bill.  He  also  felt  called  upon  to  prove 
Jmself  a  man  of  the  world.  "Got  a  speer  bit 
o'  baccy?"  he  added  with  artistic  carelessness. 

"I  might  'ev  a  bit,  or  I  mightn't;  I  cawnt 
say  till  I  see."  The  beauty  of  the  answer  was 
in  its  implications.  He  fished  out  of  one 
pocket  an  old  matchbox,  and  opened  it.  "I've 
got  more'n  I  thought — 'elp  yerself." 

He  held  out  the  box  to  Bill.  Now  I  feel 
confident  that  up  to  this  moment  Bill  had  in- 
tended to  keep  the  thing  up  properly — to 
smoke  a  cigarette,  and  pity  people,  and  show  a 
knowledge  of  affairs.  But  when  he  saw  that 
precious  matchbox  extended  innocently  toward 
him,  a  sudden  impulse  of  sheer  boyishness 
overcame  him.  He  smote  the  matchbox  from 
underneath,  sent  it  flying  into  the  air,  and 
burst  into  a  roar  of  undignified  laughter. 

"Just  wait  one  minute,  will  yer!"  said  the 
aged  smoker,  as  he  gathered  up  his  treasure 
from  the  road.  "I'll  give  yer  what-for  for  that, 
my  boy."  Bill  did  wait ;  I  believe  the  other  boy 
was  subsequently  sorry  that  he  had  detained 
Bill. 


132  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

I  have  also  seen  the  workmen  in  their  hour 
of  repose.  They  can  apparently  sleep  under 
considerable  difficulties.  A  sack  on  a  loose  heap 
of  rubble  forms  the  couch.  The  man  lies  flat  on 
his  back  with  his  hands  under  his  head.  His 
hat  is  tilted  a  little  forward  to  keep  the  sun  out 
of  his  eyes.  His  clay  pipe  droops  in  one  corner 
of  his  mouth ;  even  in  sleep  his  teeth  do  not 
loose  their  hold  of  it.  Other  men  make  them- 
selves something  which  is  almost  an  easy-chair 
by  tilting  a  wheelbarrow.  After  a  morning  at 
road-making,  I  should  think  it  would  be  possi- 
ble to  sleep  almost  anywhere. 

At  night  the  scene  is  weird,  solitary,  and 
romantic.  The  light  from  the  lanterns  or  fur- 
naces is  dim  and  wavering,  the  kind  of  light 
which  at  a  little  distance  makes  inanimate 
objects  seem  to  be  living  and  moving.  One 
feels  how  easy  it  would  be  to  murder  the  police- 
man who  has  just  passed, — there  are  plenty  of 
pickaxes  near  at  hand, — and  to  destroy  all  traces 
of  the  crime  by  the  help  of  one  of  those  fur- 
naces. Perhaps  the  same  idea  has  occurred  to 
the  policeman ;  he  looks  very  suspiciously  at 


NO    THOROUGHFARE.  133 

me.  I  could  not  in  any  case  have  made  use  of 
the  furnace,  because  I  see  now  that  there  is  a 
watchman  seated  in  front  of  it.  His  head  rests 
on  his  hands,  and  he  appears  to  be  asleep.  He 
turns  round  sharply  when  he  hears  my  foot- 
step, and  he  too  looks  at  me  suspiciously.  By 
the  time  I  have  reached  Walham  Green  I  know 
precisely  how  a  condemned  murderer  feels. 
This  in  itself  is  a  kind  of  change — not  perhaps 
quite  as  good  as  a  fortnight  at  the  seaside,  but 
some  relief  in  a  career  of  monotonous  innocence. 


V.— IN  LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS. 

THE  ordinary  man's  strongest  point  is  his 
ignorance.  And  the  subject  of  which  he  shows 
the  most  thorough  and  unlimited  ignorance  is 
generally  the  law  of  his  own  land.  Conse- 
quently, if  he  is  called  upon  to  walk  through  any 
place  where  many  solicitors  congregate,  he  has 
a  sense  of  awe.  He  has  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
that  he  is  a  bad  man,  and  that  it  is  of  no  use  to 
try  to  hide  it ;  that  he  is  an  ignorant  man,  and 
that  every  solicitor  who  meets  him  knows  him 
to  be  ignorant,  and  blandly  despises  him  for  it. 
He  does  not  know  what  a  tort  is,  or  what  com- 
mon form  means,  or  how  to  find  his  way  about 
Somerset  House.  In  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  the 
air  is  redolent  with  the  very  best  law,  and  the 
ordinary  man  as  he  walks  through  the  place 
feels  like  a  poacher.  Many  clerks  are  coming 
and  going.  Some  are  chained  to  a  black  bag : 
others  have  done  nothing  worthy  of  fetters, 
and  go  freely ;  nearly  all  are  in  a  hurry.  They 


IN  LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS.  135 

run  up  steps  and  down  steps,  and  take  short 
cuts,  and  know  their  way  about.  Cabs  are 
always  waiting  in  case  of  emergencies.  Judges 
pass  through  on  their  way  to  the  Courts  in  their 
own  private  equipages.  I  saw  one  the  other 
day  in  a  common  hansom ;  I  will  not  mention 
his  name,  but  I  hope  he  is  ashamed  of  himself. 
Clients  enter  eagerly  and  smilingly  the  offices 
of  their  respective  solicitors,  and  some  time 
afterward  pass  into  the  street  again,  looking 
limp  and  dejected.  I  do  not  know  what  the 
solicitors  do  to  them ;  but  it  is  something, 
apparently,  which  destroys  all  enthusiasm, 
knocks  down  one's  castles  in  the  air,  and  leaves 
one  face  to  face  with  a  few  facts,  which  are  gen- 
erally unpleasant.  Or,  perhaps,  it  is  the  com- 
bination of  mystery  and  severity  which  seems 
to  prevail  in  a  solicitor's  orifice.  They  give  you 
a  morning  paper  to  read,  but  you  have  no  heart 
for  it.  You  gaze  at  a  few  black  boxes — very 
black,  and  cold,  and  shiny — that  have  strayed 
into  the  waiting-room,  and  read  curious  inscrip- 
tions upon  them.  "The  Pimpleton  Colliery 
Co."  You  wonder  where  Pimpleton  is,  and 


136  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

what  kind  of  a  company  it  was.  No  opinion  is 
expressed  about  it  on  the  outside  of  the  box ; 
the  inscription  is  impartial  and  reticent. 
"Smithers'  Trustees"  are  the  words  on  the  next 
box.  Who  was  poor  Smithers,  and  did  he  ever 
think  he  would  come  to  this?  It  is  a  large  box. 
Can  the  Trustees  be  inside?  "Sir  Thomas  and 
Lady  Polecat's  Marriage  Settlement."  Sir 
Thomas  was  generous — generous  to  the  verge 
of  weakness — and  she — well,  it  was  not  a  happy 
marriage.  You  have  absolutely  no  grounds  for 
thinking  anything  of  the  kind,  except  that  the 
names  and  the  nature  of  the  box  seem  to  sug- 
gest it  somehow.  In  the  next  room  you  can 
hear  a  clerk  reading  out  something  in  a  dreary 
monotone ;  another  clerk  with  a  peremptory 
voice  stops  him  at  intervals.  You  wonder  what 
they  are  doing.  Is  it  possible  that  they  can  be 
playing  some  kind  of  a  round  game?  At  last, 
you  go  to  the  window  and  look  out  for  want  of 
any  other  occupation.  That  solicitor  must  be 
most  conscientious  from  whose  windows  the 
best  view  of  St.  Paul's  is  to  be  obtained.  The 
longer  a  man  waits,  the  greater  does  his  respect 


IN  LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS.  137 

become  for  the  man  who  keeps  him  waiting. 
Many  more  such  opinions  might  you  formulate, 
but  a  clerk  enters,  a  clerk  who  conceals  as  far  as 
he  can  the  contempt  which  he  naturally  has  for 
you  :  "Would  you  step  this  way?"  In  another 
minute  you  are  taking  a  lesson  in  the  manage- 
ment of  your  affairs,  or,  as  you  prefer  to  term 
it,  you  are  giving  your  solicitor  your  instruc- 
tions. 

But  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  are  not  only  legal ; 
there  is  a  space  in  their  midst  which  is  almost 
rural,  a  square  garden  where,  as  Dickens  wrote, 
"a  few  smoky  sparrows  twitter  in  smoky  trees, 
as  though  they  called  to  one  another,  'Let  us 
play  at  country.'  '  Many  memories  of  Dickens 
linger  here.  Speaking  of  himself,  he  wrote  from 
Broadstairs,  "Sometimes  he  goes  up  to  London 
(eighty  miles  or  so  away),  and  then  I'm  told 
there  is  a  sound  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  at  night 
as  of  men  laughing,  together  with  a  clinking  of 
knives  and  forks  and  wine-glasses."  The  jovial- 
ity seems  to  have  gone  from  the  place  now,  and 
some  of  the  splendor  has  gone  too.  My  Lord 
Sandwich — but  this  was  a  very  long  time  ago — 


I38  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

had  a  house  here,  and  hither  came  Mr.  Samuel 
Pepys  to  say  farewell  one  fine  February  morn- 
ing, when  my  lord  was  about  to  go  "out  of 
towne  upon  his  embassy  toward  Spayne."  The 
Court  was  in  mourning  for  the  King  of  Spain, 
and  a  little  less  than  a  fortnight  before,  Mr. 
Pepys  has  duly  recorded  that  he  "put  on  a  new 
black  cloth  suit  to  an  old  coat."  He  would 
not,  we  trust,  wear  that  old  coat  upon  this  im- 
portant occasion ;  for  my  lord's  house  was  full 
of  people.  Among  them  was  Sir  W.  Coventry. 
"Only  a  piece  of  courtship,"  says  knowing  Mr. 
Pepys,  who  was  no  bad  hand  at  a  little  "court- 
ship" himself. 

The  square  garden  looks  barren  enough  now, 
but  it  is  quite  indisputable.  There  are  real 
birds,  real  trees  and  grass,  although  they  may 
be  a  little  smoky.  And  here  in  the  summer- 
time one  may  see  tennis-players  amusing  them- 
selves, and  never  thinking  that  within  some  few 
yards  of  them  awful  secrets,  bound  with  a  blood- 
red  girdle  of  tape,  may  be  lying  in  the  dark 
seclusion  of  a  strong-room.  If  one  knew  all 
that  these  solicitors  know,  it  is  to  be  feared 


IN  LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS.  139 

that  one  would  have  no  heart  for  tennis.  At 
certain  hours  of  the  day  streams  of  children  flow 
through  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  coming  from  their 
school  to  their  unsavory  homes  in  Clare  Market. 
They  walk  under  the  shadow  of  the  law,  so  to 
speak,  but  they  are  not  touched  by  its  gravity. 
They  are  reckless  little  children,  with  a  tendency 
to  sample  everything.  They  drink  at  the  foun- 
tains, poke  their  noses  through  the  bars  of  that 
almost  rural  place,  and  speak  contumeliously  of 
those  who  are  inside,  hang  on  to  passing  vehi- 
cles, sit  down  in  street  puddles,  make  absurd 
fusses  over  grimy  babies,  use  awful  language, 
whistle  piercingly,  fight  freely — do  anything 
which  is  not  serene  and  grave. 

About  the  hour  of  six  comes  the  general  exo- 
dus; the  lights  go  out  in  the  windows;  cloths 
are  flung  over  tables  piled  with  papers,  to  keep 
the  dust  from  them  ;  clerks  hurry  to  secure  a 
place  on  the  'bus  for  Camden  Town ;  solicitors 
fly  homeward  in  hansoms.  By  nine  o'clock,  I 
am  told,  there  is  hardly  a  vestige  of  the  best 
professional  manner  left  in  London.  Dinner 
destroys  it. 


VI.— ON  THE  UNDERGROUND. 

IT  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  more 
romantic  to  go  by  the  Underground  Railway 
than  to  take  the  'bus.  Consequently,  I  gener- 
ally take  the  'bus.  But  there  are  times  when  I 
come  fresh  from  the  perusal  of  some  modern 
novel,  in  which  the  hero  has  black  hair  and 
knows  a  good  deal  about  hypnotism ;  on  these 
occasions  I  do  feel  that  the  Underground  is 
much  less  incongruous.  It  is  true  that  the 
routine  of  the  booking-office  tends  to  lower  the 
whole  proceeding  to  the  level  of  a  commonplace 
commercial  transaction ;  but  one  cannot  see  a 
train  emerging  slowly  from  the  darkness  and 
vanishing  into  darkness  again,  without  recalling 
to  one's  mind  William  Wordsworth's  "Intima- 
tions of  Immortality";  and,  to  me  personally, 
the  mere  fact  that  I  do  not  know  for  certain 
whether  or  not  I  change  at  Gloucester  Road 
makes  the  journey  seem  mysterious  and  even 
hazardous. 


OX    THE    UNDERGROUND.  141 


There  are  many  respects  in  which  a  station 
on  the  Underground  resembles  all  other  sta- 
tions. The  guard  shows  the  same  supernatural 
grace  and  agility  in  entering  his  van  while  the 
train  is  in  motion.  The  boy  from  Smith's  book- 
stall displays  the  same  enthusiasm  in  his  efforts 
to  sell  the  latest  edition.  There  are  advertise- 
ments and  there  are  time-tables.  The  auto- 
matic machine  here,  as  elsewhere,  pleads  with 
the  young  man  with  silent  eloquence,  tempting 
him  to  drop  in  one  penny  and  take  one  packet 
of  butter-scotch,  and  leaving  him  afterward  to 
wonder  what  on  earth  he  shall  do  with  it.  But 
there  is  very  little  luggage.  '  I  have  stood  at 
Euston,  and  watched  the  piles  of  luggage  dis- 
gorged on  to  the  platform,  and  attempted  some- 
times to  conjecture  the  man  from  his  portman- 
teau. I  have  been  uniformly  unsuccessful,  but 
the  pastime  pleases  me.  Here  one  has  to  con- 
jecture the  portmanteau  from  the  man.  In  the 
case  of  that  gentleman  who  twists  a  little  black 
mustache,  makes  his  own  cigarettes,  and  wishes 
to  know  if  he  is  right  for  "San  Jemms' 
Par-r-k,"  I  should  expect  to  find  a  battered 


M2  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

Gladstone  bag  still  bearing  the  labels  of  foreign 
hotels.  Of  course,  I  can  never  know  that  my 
conjecture  is  right,  but  that  is  better  than  always 
knowing  that  my  conjecture  is  wrong,  which  is 
my  fate  at  stations  not  on  the  Underground. 

I  am  always  interested  in  the  advertisements. 
"Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise  is  useless  unless 
you  advertise,"  says  the  American  proverb  ;  but 
it  is  quite  impossible  to  think  that  these  ad- 
vertisements are  posted  on  each  side  of  the 
line  from  any  selfish  motive.  They  cannot 
be  merely  utilitarian,  because  one  passes  too 
quickly  to  read  the  whole  of  them.  "Hang 
your  Venetians !"  is  a  line  which  I  have  read 
frequently  while  traveling  in  the  Underground, 
and  yet  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  discov- 
ered its  full  import.  At  first  sight  it  looks  like 
the  cry  of  some  bloodthirsty  Italian  patriot, 
but  on  reading  the  rest  of  the  advertisements  I 
found  that  it  only  referred  to  a  particular  way 
of  fixing  blinds,  which  the  advertiser  desired  to 
recommend.  In  all  probability  these  advertise- 
ments are  put  here  from  aesthetic  motives,  to 
break  the  long  line  of  blank  wall  and  to  please 


ON    THE    UNDERGROUND.  143 

the  eye.  The  English  sky  is  not  what  it  should 
be,  and  our  advertisers  probably  wished  to  im- 
prove and  diversify  it  when  they  erected  sky- 
signs.  But  I  do  protest  against  the  beautiful 
girl-child  of  fourteen,  with  flaxen  hair,  tight 
boots,  and  a  short  pink  frock,  holding  up  a 
packet  to  an  amazed  and  ecstatic  mother.  The 
packet  may  be  cocoa,  or  soap,  or  pills,  or  baking 
powder;  but  the  girl's  remark  to  her  mother 
always  begins  with,  "See,  mamma!"  and  this 
is  maddening. 

The  compartments  which  do  not  quite  reach 
to  the  top  of  the  carriage  are  a  nuisance,  because 
they  often  make  the  man  in  one  compartment 
the  unwilling  audience  of  confidences  which  are 
being  interchanged  in  another.  The  other  day 
the  average  young  man  and  average  young 
woman  got  into  the  compartment  next  to  mine 
at  South  Kensington. 

"Emma!"  he  said. 

I  coughed,  but  he  would  not  notice  it. 

"Emma,  Hemma,"  he  went  on,  "spike  to 
me." 

Then  I  coughed  in  a  way  which  might  have 


144  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 


unlinked  carriages  and  disordered  the  signals  at 
Sloane  Square.  It  had  its  effect.  Before  \ve 
left  South  Kensington  he  was  discussing  Mr. 
Irving's  Louis  XL,  and  saying  some  very  bitter 
things  about  the  dramatic  critics.  It  is  only 
safe  to  discuss  impersonal  subjects  on  the  Un- 
derground. Most  passengers  know  this ;  and,  if 
they  wish  to  speak  of  intimate  and  secret  sub- 
jects, they  do  so  with  a  certain  care  and  reser- 
vation. Here  is  a  conversation  : 

"That  matter  I  was  speaking  to  you  about  on 
Tuesday  night — anything  settled?" 

"Well,  I  saw  'im,  yer  know." 

"What,  the  old  man?" 

"No,  the  son.  He  awksed  me  to  'ave  a  glass 
of  wine — sherry  wine — but  I  wasn't  to  be  got 
over  that  way." 

"What  did  yer  say?" 

"Say?  I  said  no-thankyer.  I  told  'im  I 
didn't  drink  so  early  in  the  mornin'.  Then  I 
tackled  'im  about  the — you  know — an  'e  'adn't 
a  word  to  say." 

"An'  what  did  'e  do?" 

"Caved  in,  reglar  caved  in.     He  just  give  me 


ON    THE    UNDERGROUND. 


the — the  what  I  wanted,  yer  know.  I  wasn't 
sarcastic  exactly,  but  I  let  'im  see  that  I  knew 
what  'e  was,  and  that  settled  'im." 

It  is  very  low  and  very  despicable,  but  I  felt 
distinctly  curious  to  know  what  all  this  was 
about. 

One  idea  always  haunts  me  on  the  Under- 
ground. I  always  remember  that  up  above  me 
the  traffic  is  passing.  Men  are  working,  or  lov- 
ing, or  sleeping,  and  under  their  feet  I  am  pass- 
ing on  some  commonplace  errand.  They  do 
not  know  it ;  I  am  near  them,  but  they  do  not  re- 
gard me.  I  feel  like  some  natural  law  which 
works  in  secrecy  and  darkness,  taking  effect  at 
last  in  the  sudden  earthquake  or  eruption.  A 
feeling  as  grand  as  this  is  very  cheap  at  the  price 
charged  for  a  return  ticket  from  Earl's  Court  to 
the  Temple.  I  am  not  quite  as  disastrous  as  a 
natural  law,  but  I  am  for  a  time  as  secret  and  as 
dark.  It  is  in  the  solitude  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd  that  one  realizes  best  what  the  crowd 
really  means.  When  I  am  in  the  midst  of  the 
bustle  of  the  Strand  I  forget  the  people  around 
me.  When  in  the  solitude  of  a  carriage  on  the 


146  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

Underground  Railway,  I  am  near  them  and  yet 
apart  from  them.  I  think  most  of  their  vast  sig- 
nificance ;  of  the  merchant  in  millions  returning 
from  too  good  a  lunch ;  of  the  street  vender  of 
some  toy  anxious  over  every  penny ;  of  the 
hurry  of  special  editions  and  the  leisure  of  the 
classes  who  purchase  them.  Here  within  but  a 
few  yards  of  me  is  every  class  of  society,  close 
together  locally,  immeasurably  apart  really. 

"Temple !"  Once  more  I  am  in  the  crowd, 
and  intent  on  nothing  but  my  own  private  and 
particular  business. 


VII.— IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS. 

ON  a  September  afternoon,  when  the  autumn 
is  trying  to  make  up  for  the  summer,  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  enjoy  a  penny  solitude  on  a  chair  in  Ken- 
sington Gardens.  It  is  pleasant,  because  in  the 
remoter  parts  of  these  gardens  London  is  very 
far  off,  and  drowsy  noises  invite  one  to  slumber. 
One  hears  the  quack  of  the  ducks  on  the  pond 
in  the  distance,  the  barking  of  dogs  well  pleased 
with  the  open  space,  the  laughter  of  children — 
children  of  beautiful  attire  from  respectable 
Bayswater  or  cultured  Kensington — the  rustle 
of  dead  leaves  as  someone  passes  across  the 
grass,  and  the  hum  of  the  traffic  far  away  in  the 
Uxbridge  Road.  As  one  listens  to  these  faint 
sounds,  things  slowly  become  indistinct  and  un- 
certain. The  hum  of  the  traffic  is  changed  into 
the  hum  of  a  mowing-machine  in  a  garden  which 
you  knew  well  once,  a  hundred  miles  away  from 
London.  You  remember  that  the  sound  of  that 


148  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

mowing-machine  always  used  to  send  you  to 
sleep.  Why,  you  ask,  does  it  not  send  one  to 
sleep  now?  Possibly,  because  these  dogs  make 
such  a  noise  with  their  quacking — there  is  some- 
thing wrong  with  that  reason,  but  you  do  not 
feel  strenuous  enough  to  put  it  right.  Oblivion 
comes  slowly  over  you ;  your  last  conscious 
thoughts  are  that  it  is  unseemly  to  sleep  in  a 
public  place,  and  that  you  will  keep  awake,  and 
then  that  you  simply  must  go  to  sleep  for  two 
minutes  and  trust  that  the  curate  and  the  rest 
of  the  congregation  will  not  observe  it.  The 
curate  and  congregation  have  been  brought  into 
your  mind  by  some  association  of  ideas  which  I 
am  unable  to  trace.  So  you  sleep  calmly,  until 
someone  touches  you  on  the  shoulder;  in  an 
instant  you  are  sitting  upright  and  assuming  an 
expression  of  reverent  attention.  It  is  only  the 
man  who  has  charge  of  the  chairs,  and  who 
apologizes  for  disturbing  you.  The  conscious- 
ness of  things-as-they-really-are  comes  over  you 
in  quick  surges,  and  for  one  penny  you  purchase 
the  right  to  sit  on  any  chair  in  Kensington 
Gardens,  Hyde  Park,  the  Green  Park,  and  St. 


IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS.  149 

James's    Park    during    the    remainder   of   the 
day. 

The  desire  to  walk  always  follows  immedi- 
ately upon  the  purchase  of  the  right  to  sit 
down,  just  as  the  knowledge  that  one  can  now 
sleep  undisturbed  always  induces  wakefulness. 
You  walk  down  the  avenue  ;  a  nursemaid  is  run- 
ning with  a  perambulator,  to  the  delight  of  the 
baby  inside.  At  the  speed  which  she  has  at- 
tained the  perambulator  is  only  partially  under 
control,  and  occasionally  zigzags.  As  you 
pass,  it  zigzags  into  you  and  hurts  you.  The 
nursemaid  gives  you  one  look,  and  you  feel  at 
once  that  in  some  way,  which  you  cannot  under- 
stand now,  she  has  conferred  a  favor  upon  you, 
and  that  you  have  not  behaved  at  all  well  about 
it.  You  murmur  an  apology,  and  she  moves 
away  at  a  reduced  speed,  talking  audibly  to  the 
baby:  "Did  the  nasty,  great,  ugly  man  try  to 
upset  byeby's  pretty  p'rambulator,  then?" 
There  are  many  nursemaids  in  Kensington  Gar- 
dens, and  a  proper  perambulator  track  ought  to 
be  laid  down.  Under  the  trees  on  one  side  of 
the  avenue  two  schoolgirls  are  .sitting  and  read- 


15°  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

ing,  or,  to  be  more  accurate,  one  of  them  is 
reading  out  loud,  and  the  other  is  embroidering 
a  sock,  or  some  work  of  that  kind,  and  listening. 
The  reader  pauses  as  you  pass ;  not  from  nat- 
ural modesty  and  reserve,  but  in  order  to  make 
you  feel  more  like  a  blight.  A  little  farther  on 
a  woman  of  severe  aspect  sits  with  a  book  in  her 
hands.  Occasionally  she  closes  her  eyes  and  her 
lips  move.  She  is  committing  something  to 
memory.  The  book  is  a  reciter;  so  there  is  a 
bad  time  coming  for  some  respectable  drawing 
room.  A  very  old  lady  is  wheeled  past  in  her 
chair;  as  she  passes  you,  she  raises  a  deliberate 
double  eyeglass,  discovers  all  your  little  deficien- 
cies, and  finds  them  quite  uninteresting.  Why 
go  farther?  Why  should  you  go  on  to  the  pond 
— you,  who  have  no  bread  to  give  the  ducks, 
and  do  not  understand  the  scientific  sailing  of 
boats?  Have  you  not  still  in  your  ticket-pocket 
that  by  virtue  of  which  you  may  sit  on  any  chair 
in  Kensington  Gardens  and  three  Parks?  Go 
back  to  your  penny  solitude  ! 

Once  more  you  sit  beneath  the  shadow  of 
some  great  tree,  and  hear  "the  girdling  city's 


IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS.  \$\ 

hum."  Look  upward,  and  on  every  bough  each 
leaf  is  edged  with  brown,  and  yellow  blotches 
stain  the  green,  veined  centers.  It  is  warm 
enough  now;  but  in  a  little  while  the  trees  will 
be  bared,  and  you  will  scarcely  care  to  sit  still 
for  long  in  the  open.  It  is  almost  quiet  here ; 
here  no  loud  orator  exhorts  his  crowd  to  hate 
the  capitalist  or  lead  a  better  life;  the  noise  of 
the  traffic  is  rather  a  lullaby  than  a  distraction  ; 
but  one  has  not  far  to  walk  before  one  reaches 
the  uproar.  The  warm,  drowsy,  autumn  after- 
noon  in  these  Gardens  has  all  the  charm  of  a 
snatched  opportunity ;  the  quiet  is  more  deeply 
felt  because  the  noisy  restlessness  is  so  near. 
In  the  desert  one  is  proverbially  thankful  for  the 
oasis;  in  the  oasis  one  should  be  thankful  for 
the  desert.  In  Kensington  Gardens — perhaps 
"in  this  lone,  open  glade" — one  of  our  modern 
poets  wrote  not  the  least  charming  of  his  lyrics, 
as  he  watched : 

All  things  in  this  glade  go  through 
The  changes  of  their  quiet  day. 

You  wander  away  toward  the  gate,  trying  to 
recall  the  rest  of  the  poem.  Fate  is  fond  of 


152  PLAYTHINGS  AND   PARODIES. 

spoiling  our  most  cultured  and  appreciative  mo- 
ments. The  London  boy,  who  has  passed  out 
of  the  gate  before  you,  turns  back  excitedly  and 
shouts  to  his  brother,  who  is  some  twenty  yards 
behind  him : 

"Awthur!    Loossharp!     Run!    'Ere's  a  cab- 
bos  down." 


VIII.— ON  WATERLOO  BRIDGE. 

THE  rain  had  been  falling  at  intervals 
throughout  the  day,  and  had  brought  with  it, 
so  it  seemed,  almost  universal  depression.  The 
passing  omnibus  sent  its  shower  of  mud  into  the 
face  of  the  wayfarer,  and  yet  took  no  pride  ap- 
parently in  doing  it.  The  cab  horses  were  all 
grown  weary  and  mechanical ;  they  came  down 
Chancery  Lane  in  two  slides  and  a  convulsion, 
but  cared  nothing  for  it.  On  the  pavement 
there  were  sullen  and  bitter  feelings  in  the 
hearts  of  the  crowd,  because  those  that  had  um- 
brellas were  many  and  those  that  could  manage 
them  aright  were  very  few.  Did  anyone  feel 
happier  for  the  gentle  spring  showers?  I  can- 
not say  certainly,  but  I  saw  a  hatter  come  to  the 
door  of  his  shop  and  look  out ;  he  went  back 
again,  rubbing  his  large  hands  softly  together, 
and  looking  thankful. 

To-night  one  naturally  turned  to  the  river. 

'53 


154  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

"Are  you  wet?"  it  seemed  to  be  saying;  "I, 
too,  am  very  \vet  and  darkly  miserable,  finding 
my  own  length  tedious,  and  tired  of  my  tides." 
It  has  its  moods.  On  winter  nights  it  is  very 
angry;  the  white  gleam  of  the  floating  ice  is 
like  the  white  of  fierce  teeth ;  it  snarls  and 
growls  against  the  arches ;  it  shakes  itself  impa- 
tiently under  the  Embankment  lights;  it  wants 
to  get  away  and  do  mischief  in  the  darkness. 
Then  there  are  happy  mornings  when  the  old 
blind  man  on  the  bridge,  as  he  sits  reading  and 
mumbling,  is  conscious  of  a  little  sunlight ;  and 
then  the  river  is  brilliant  and  active,  like  a  City 
man  wearing  a  shining  hat  and  hurrying  to  catch 
a  train.  And  to-night  it  is  mysterious  and  sad. 
It  has  a  great  many  secrets,  and  it  slides  along 
in  the  darkness  muttering  to  itself  about  them. 
It  is  full  of  horrible  knowledge,  which  it  does 
not  always  keep  to  itself.  Sometimes,  out  of 
sheer  wantonness,  it  gives  up  one  of  its  ghastly 
secrets,  to  sicken  us  and  frighten  us.  But  to- 
night it  only  mutters  to  itself.  It  is  like  the  old 
woman  who  passed  me  just  now.  She  was  an 
old  hag  with  a  tattered  shawl,  sandy-gray  hair, 


ON    WATERLOO  BRIDGE  1 55 

and  a  wicked  face.  She  skulked  along  in  the 
darkness,  swearing  under  her  breath  all  the 
while. 

The  crowd  at  night  is,  or  seems  to  be,  more 
picturesque.  There  are  times  in  the  day  when 
it  would  be  hardly  possible  to  throw  a  stone  on 
Waterloo  Bridge  without  hitting  a  small  black 
bag,  unless  an  omnibus  got  in  the  way.  But 
now  the  clerk  who  comes  into  business  every 
week  day  by  Waterloo  has  finished  with  work 
for  the  day,  and  has  gone  back  to  comfort  and 
Clapham.  Heavily  laden  vans  covered  with 
dripping  tarpaulins  are  still  moving  slowly 
toward  the  station.  Strange  characters  loiter 
on  the  bridge  at  night  sometimes.  Some  do  not 
seem  perfectly  easy  under  the  critical  gaze  of 
the  policeman.  There  is  one  type  which  seems 
very  common,  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  black 
chin,  a  white  face,  and  a  suspecting  eye.  He 
wears  a  greenish-black  frock  coat  very  much  too 
large  for  him,  with  the  collar  turned  up  to  hide 
deficiencies,  and  a  low  felt  hat  tilted  a  little  for- 
ward and  a  little  to  one  side.  Sometimes  he 
wears  boots  and  sometimes  slippers,  but  he 


1 56  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

always  has  them  very  much  too  large,  so  that 
he  shuffles  in  his  walk.  To-night  I  notice  that 
ironical  fate  has  left  him  with  carpet  slippers. 
He  is  to  be  found  anywhere  between  White- 
chapel  and  West  Kensington,  but  he  is  particu- 
larly fond  of  bridges.  Sometimes  his  impulsive 
nature  leads  him  to  confide  in  you.  He  is  go- 
ing to  call  on  the  French  ambassador;  he  has 
in  fact,  an  appointment  with  him,  and  he  has  no 
doubt  that  the  French  ambassador  will  do  jus- 
tice to  his  case.  He  will  not  trouble  you  with 
the  details  of  his  case.  He  rather  gives  you  the 
impression  that  the  French  ambassador  would 
not  like  him  to  be  so  indiscreet.  No,  his  point 
is  this :  his  interview  is  not  until  the  morning, 
and  in  the  meantime  what  is  he  to  do?  He 
has  no  money,  and  he  cannot  beg.  He  would 
sooner  starve  than  beg.  He  would  be  thankful 
for  a  loan  of  sixpence,  not  more — he  would  not 
take  more,  because  he  might  not  be  able  to  re- 
pay it.  He  asks  you  for  it  rather  than  anyone 
else,  because  he  could  see  at  once  that  you  were 
a  gentleman.  He  adds,  rather  incoherently, 
that  it  may  be  the  turning-point  in  his  career. 


ON    WATERLOO  BRIDGE.  157 

It  is  generally  at  night  that  he  tells  this  story — 
or  any  other  story. 

Suddenly  a  lump  of  mud,  large  and  of  irregu- 
lar shape,  darts  out  from  the  traffic  in  the  road- 
way and  walks  once  around  me,  sniffing.  There 
is  a  dog  inside  it,  a  dog  that  has  temporarily 
mislaid  its  master.  He  turns  from  me  in  bitter 
disappointment,  and  in  his  flurry  and  excite- 
ment begins  to  investigate  the  most  unlikely 
people.  He  is  perfectly  sure  that  he  had  a  mas- 
ter somewhere  about  here,  but  for  the  life  of 
him  he  can't  remember  where  he  put  the  man. 
At  last  a  shrill  whistle  sounds  fifty  yards  away, 
and  the  lump  of  mud  hurries  off  with  a  little 
impatient  bark,  which  means :  "Why  on  earth 
couldn't  the  man  have  said  that  before  instead 
of  giving  me  all  this  anxiety !" 

It  is  rather  interesting  to  watch  the  crowd 
and  to  conjecture  which  member  of  it  would  be 
the  most  likely  to  commit  suicide  by  jumping 
from  the  bridge.  The  river  does  not  look  par- 
ticularly inviting;  and  even  if  it  were  cleaner 
and  warmer,  I  believe  that  there  must  always 
be  one  moment  during  the  fall  from  the  bridge 


158  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

to  the  water  when  the  action  seems  to  be  a  mis- 
take— a  mistake  beyond  the  possibility  of  cor- 
rection. Would  it  be  the  duty  of  anyone  on 
the  bridge  to  jump  in  after  the  unfortunate? 
As  one  looks  down  at  the  water,  one  sees  so  very 
many  reasons  why  such  an  attempt  at  a  rescue 
would  be  foolhardy  and  useless.  Personally,  I 
should  not  like  to  deprive  some  worthier  man 
of  the  chance  of  displaying  heroism. 

As  I  look,  the  lights  of  a  train  pass  slowly 
across  Charing  Cross  bridge,  and  one  sees  the 
steam  from  the  engine.  Steam  and  smoke  often 
seem  to  be  living  creatures.  Yonder,  from  one 
hard-working  chimney,  the  smoke  comes  out  in 
the  form  of  an  angry  snake,  seeming  to  be  fight- 
ing its  way  through  the  wind  and  rain.  Then, 
by  some  change  in  the  strength  or  direction  of 
the  wind,  it  alters  its  shape,  and  looks  like  a 
woman's  hair.  Then,  again,  it  scatters  into 
pieces,  and  seems  to  be  a  flight  of  little  ghostly 
gray  birds  hurrying  away  into  the  darkness. 


IX.— TOTTENHAM  COURT  ROAD. 

THERE  are  many  streets  in  London  which 
have  neither  the  poetry  of  picturesque  poverty 
nor  the  graces  of  luxury  and  culture.  Pre- 
eminent among  these  is  Tottenham  Court  Road. 
Some  of  its  shops  are  large ;  very  few  of  them 
are  beautiful.  They  may  be  ambitious,  but 
they  do  not  reach  to  the  level  of  the  artistic 
upholsterer.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  kind  of 
flowerpot,  of  one  color — a  dirty,  ugly  color; 
one  sees  it  often  on  the  window-sills  of  lodging 
houses  in  the  black  back  streets  of  Bloomsbury, 
and  one  always  feels  sure  that  it  must  have  been 
bought  in  Tottenham  Court  Road  ;  it  marks  the 
point  of  taste  at  which  the  middle  class  has 
arrived.  The  artistic  spirit  and  the  iniquitous 
hire-system  seldom  exist  together,  and  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  is  the  home  of  the  hire-system. 
There  is  a  certain  kind  of  cake  which  is  chiefly 
to  be  found  in  the  confectioners'  windows  of 


160  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

this  road.  It  is  a  cake  of  considerable  parts, 
but  it  is  not  nearly  so  good  as  it  wants  to  be. 
Sometimes  it  adorns  a  social  undertaking  of  a 
family.  But  there  is  something  in  it — some 
subtle  quality  perfectly  independent  of  currants 
— which  irresistibly  suggests  a  large  hall,  tea 
urns,  pomatum,  platform  speeches,  and  a  magic 
lantern  rather  out  of  order.  The  cake,  like  the 
flowerpot,  is  ambitious.  Many  of  the  shops 
here  have  not  even  ambitions.  The  felt  hats  in 
that  shop  over  the  way  are  "all  one  price." 
There  is  no  room  there  for  the  indulgence  of 
class  distinctions;  like  the  processes  of  nature, 
they  vary  neither  for  peer  nor  peasant. 

And,  indeed,  the  crowds  passing  up  and 
down  the  road  hardly  seem  to  be  given  to 
ostentation  and  small  vanities.  There  are  ex- 
ceptions, of  course;  I  notice  a  thin,  pale  clerk 
looking  intently  into  a  tailor's  window  and  smil- 
ing gratefully  at  the  more  forcible  patterns. 
But,  as  a  rule,  the  people  seem  to  have  some 
money,  but  not  much  money  to  spend,  and  do 
not  look  as  if  they  would  spend  it  without  suffi- 
cient reason.  Consequently,  the  allurements 


TOTTENHAM  COURT  ROAD.  161 

and  seductions  which  are  offered  are  very 
strong.  The  cheapest  goods  are  put  in  the 
windows  with  the  price  marked  upon  them  ;  and 
they  are  very  cheap.  How  does  the  grocer, 
whose  establishment  I  just  passed,  manage  to 
sell  tinned  sardines  at  such  an  absurdly  small 
price?  One  cannot  but  marvel  at  it,  though  per- 
sonally one  might  prefer  a  more  quiet  death. 
The  notices  in  the  windows  are  peculiarly  at- 
tractive. One  man  advertises  "The  Boots  of  the 
Future."  This  might,  perhaps,  be  called  the 
leather  forecast.  It  appeals  to  the  same  in- 
stinct as  the  weary  old  man  in  the  Strand,  who 
tells  us  that  three  most  ordinary  collar  studs,  to 
be  purchased  for  one  penny,  are  "the  greatest 
novelty  upon  hurth."  The  shops,  I  notice,  of 
fishmongers  and  fruiterers  spread  themselves 
out  and  protrude  into  the  pavement.  Can  it 
be  safe  to  allow  so  much  fruit  to  be  within  the 
reach  of  the  passer-by?  I  feel  certain  that  I 
could  take  one  of  those  apples  without  being 
seen  by  anyone  in  the  shop.  But  at  this  mo- 
ment a  wiry-looking  little  man,  with  conscien- 
tiousness written  upon  his  countenance,  fixes  his 


1 62  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

cold  glance  upon  me.  He  is  there  to  watch ; 
and,  unfortunately,  he  read  in  my  eye  that  I 
was  calculating  the  possibility  of  stealing  an 
apple ;  he  has  added  the  conjecture  that  I  was 
intending  to  steal  one,  which  is  horribly  wrong 
of  him.  He  watches  me  suspiciously  as  I  move 
away.  I  feel  half  inclined  to  go  back  again  and 
buy  something  expensive — a  cocoanut,  for  in- 
stance— but  this  might  look  like  the  action  of  a 
guilty  man.  Besides,  I  do  not  happen  to  have 
any  money  with  me.  In  some  of  the  by-streets 
irregular  commerce  is  being  conducted  from 
barrows ;  they  are  lit  by  candles  protected  from 
the  ,wind  by  glass  chimneys.  They  offer  for 
sale,  apparently,  an  unspeakable  shell  fish  and 
the  effervescing  drinks  of  the  summer  time. 
Who  buys  them?  And  what  on  earth  can  you 
do  with  them  when  you  have  bought  them? 
As  one  goes  farther  north,  the  shops  and  houses 
seem  to  get  smaller  and  more  sordid.  I  sup- 
pose one  always  reaches  the  point  at  last,  in 
walking  out  of  London,  where  the  wretchedness 
of  the  outskirt  merges  into  the  snug  decency 
of  the  suburb. 


TOTTENHAM  COURT  ROAD.  163 

The  stream  of  clerks  and  business  men  that 
flows  down  Tottenham  Court  Road  in  the  morn- 
ing and  back  again  in  the  evening  is  quite  dis- 
tinct from  the  aimless,  drifting  crowd  that  lives 
in  the  vicinity  and  seems  to  be  chiefly  occupied 
in  looking  in  shop  windows.  A  girl  of  seven 
years  or  so  has  just  stopped  before  that  uphol- 
sterer's and  stares  eagerly,  ardently,  at  the 
saddle-bag  suite.  Then  she  sighs  a  little,  and 
moves  on  to  a  chemist's,  where  she  again 
pauses.  She  looks  longingly,  almost  hungrily, 
at  a  bottle  of  quinine  and  iron  tonic.  Suddenly 
she  tears  herself  away  and  begins  to  run ;  she 
runs  a  few  steps  and  stops  short,  sucking  one 
finger;  then  she  walks  sedately  back  again  to 
the  upholsterer's  and  stares  once  more  at  the 
saddle-bag  suite.  Now,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  mental  process  underlay  this  series  of 
actions. 

The  sunlight  reveals  no  fresh  beauties  in  Tot- 
tenham Court  Road,  and  the  gaslight  cannot 
glorify  it.  It  remains  sordid — sordid  in  its  vir- 
tues, sordid  in  its  vices.  Its  temples  of  dissi- 
pation, with  their  grimy  shrubs  and  ugly  glare, 


164  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

hardly  invite  one  to  enter.  It  has  not  the  bril- 
liant activity  of  the  City,  nor  the  wealth  and 
repose  of  the  West.  Almost  every  face  in  the 
crowd  looks  tired ;  and  most  of  them  seem  to 
be  in  the  habit  of  getting  tired  to  very  little 
purpose.  They  can  live  by  their  work,  but 
there  is  always  a  struggle.  There  are  few  less 
inspiriting  places  in  London  than  Tottenham 
Court  Road ;  its  greatest  emporium  does  not 
redeem  it. 


X.— SATURDAY  NIGHT  IN  THE 
EDGWARE  ROAD. 

BETWEEN  the  line  of  barrows  on  one  side  of 
the  pavement  and  the  shops  on  the  other  side 
the  crowd  is  so  dense  that  one  must  walk  slowly. 
For  to-morrow  will  be  Sunday  and  many  have 
come  marketing  to-night ;  Saturday,  too,  is  pay 
day,  and  there  is  money  to  spend.  The  air  is 
filled  with  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  most  energetic 
salesmen  in  the  world.  The  flaring  lamps  on 
the  stalls  and  the  superior  gas  of  the  shops 
make  here  a  little  brilliant  tunnel  through  the 
large  darkness ;  the  noisy  triumphs  and  troubles 
of  buyers  and  sellers,  the  heavy  rumble  and 
swift  whirr  of  passing  traffic,  the  discord  of  pas- 
sionate cornet  and  sentimental  concertina,  con- 
trast with  the  great  silence  that  hovers  over- 
head. The  crowd  elbows  its  way  along — alert, 
busy,  basket-laden,  interesting.  Here  are  two 
girls,  arm-in-arm,  talking  noisily,  with  large 
dyed  feathers  in  their  hats.  Girls  that  walk 
and  talk  that  way  always  wear  these  feathers. 
165 


1 66  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

Three  old  women  have  met  at  a  street  corner, 
and  two  of  them  are  in  fiendishly  bad  tempers. 
'"Ev  yer  bought  yer  meat?"  inquires  the  first, 
managing  in  some  indefinable  way  to  make  the 
question  sound  like  an  insult. 

"Yes,  I  'ev  bought  my  meat,"  answers  the 
second  with  reserved  bitterness. 

"Lessee." 

"I   ont." 

Attack  and  retort  follow  in  quick  succession. 

The  third  old  woman,  who  has  a  tame-rabbit- 
like  face,  shakes  her  head  sadly  :  "'Ow  you  tew 
do  carry  on  !  Afore  I'd  give  way  to  myself  like 
that  I'd — I'd — I'd  do  suthin'."  She  is  unpopu- 
lar, as  the  didactic  generally  are.  A  little  far- 
ther on  is  a  brilliant  red  coat ;  Thomas  Atkins 
is  shedding  the  glory  of  his  society  on  a  mere 
civilian,  and  the  civilian  looks  pleased.  There 
are  boys,  inevitable  boys,  dodging  one  another 
in  the  throng  and  colliding  freely  with  every, 
body  else.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  a  thin 
blind  woman  is  seated  in  the  shadow ;  she  is 
reading  a  Bible  in  raised  characters,  very  slowly, 
syllable  by  syllable ;  she  has  not  a  large  audi- 


SA  TURD  A  Y  NIGHT  IN  EDGWARE  ROAD.      167 

ence,  but  Joolyer  has  laid  a  detaining  hand  on 
Awthur's  arm,  and  the  two  listen  for  a  moment. 
"That  allers  do  seem  to  me  so  wun'ful,"  says 
Joolyer,  with  a  pensive  expression  on  her  florid 
face.  "An'  don't  she  do  it  bewtiful,  too?" 
Awthur  agrees  with  some  hesitation ;  he  is 
genial,  patronizing,  and  slightly  fatuous. 
"Well,  mebby ;  I've  seen  that  kind  o'  thing — 
well — pretty,  frequent,  I  might  say."  Joolyer 
does  not  press  the  point ;  her  attention  has 
been  attracted  elsewhere.  "Look  'ere,  Awthur 
— one  o'  them  niggers  with  a  strorrat  and  a 
banjo.  Kimmalong."  The  nigger  takes  up 
his  position  at  the  entrance  to  a  public  house 
with  plenty  of  light  upon  him.  Words  and 
tune  are  recognizable : 

"  Dere's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber 
Dere's  wha  cle  old  folks  stay." 

"'Ow  that  does  remoind  me!"  says  Joolyer 
sentimentally.  Pleasant  things  are  pleasantest 
in  the  memory.  "You  aint  forgotten  yet  that 
night  in  May,  down  at  the  Welsh  'Arp  which  is 
'Endon  way,"  sings  Mr.  Chevalier. 

The  nigger  bases  his  appeal  to  our  charity  on 


1 68  ILAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

the  fact  that  he  has  made  music,  and  blacked 
his  face.  Another  man  supplements  his  cornet 
with  the  statement  that  he  is  blind.  A  third 
can  plead  not  only  that  he  has  lost  one  arm,  but 
that  he  turns  a  mechanical  piano  with  the  other. 
In  an  age  of  competition  we  have,  apparently, 
to  eke  out  our  attainments  with  our  afflictions. 
But  this  crowd  has  not  come  out  to-night 
merely  with  a  view  to  distribute  largess  and  suf- 
fer tunes.  Barrows  mean  business.  On  one  of 
them  a  small  scaffolding  has  been  erected  from 
which  rows  of  skinned  rabbits  are  swinging, 
shining,  unseemly,  unspeakably  blue.  Oysters 
are  to  be  purchased  at  sixpence  a  dozen ;  a 
monstrous  melon  may  be  bought  for  three- 
pence, and  a  cokernut  for  twopence.  Other 
stalls  offer  to  us  wherewithal  we  may  be  clothed  ; 
on  one  are  displayed  collars  and  shirt-fronts ;  at 
another,  the  salesman  is  pleading  with  elo- 
quence, with  pathos,  with  all  the  resources  of 
the  dramatic  art,  the  advantages  of  braces. 
"Some  on  yer,"  he  says,  and  there  are  tears  in 
his  voice,  "wear  belts.  Sooner  or  liter,  if  yur 
continyur  so  doin',  you'll  get  cramp  in  the  lines. 


SA  TURD  A  Y  NIGH  T  IN  EDG  WARE  ROAD.      1 69 

I  appeal  to  any  medical  man  'ere  present  to  say 
if  that  is  not  true."  At  this  point  he  flings 
back  his  head  proudly,  and  pauses  in  defiant 
silence  looking  a  little  like  Landseer's  Stag  at 
Bay.  Then  his  voice  drops  to  low  yet  pene- 
trating tones,  as  he  holds  forth  a  sample  of  his 
goods.  "Shall  I  say  a  shillin'  for  these?  'and- 
sewn  leather,  not  brown  paper — solid  work; 
observe  'ow  they  stretches!  I  will  not  ask  a 
shillin'.  For  this  one  night  and  never  agin, 
I  offer  'em  at  sixpence  a  pair.  Your  lawst 
chance,  gemm'en."  Of  course,  science  has  its 
place  among  these  barrows.  A  mild,  benefi- 
cent, clean-shaven  old  man  holds  up  a  glass  con 
taining  some  clear  magenta-colored  liquid.  It 
represents  the  human  blood.  He  pours  a  drop 
or  two  from  another  bottle  into  it  and  the  clear 
liquid  becomes  cloudy,  changes  color,  and  is 
offensive  to  the  smell.  The  crowd  around  test 
this  latter  point  eagerly.  This  experiment,  we 
are  told,  shows  the  effect  of  nicotine  on  the 
human  blood.  Smokers  among  the  man's  audi- 
ence look  at  one  another  dubiously.  Can  such 
things  be?  But  there  is  hope  for  them.  The 


1 70  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

old  man  adds  something  from  another  bottle 
and  the  liquid  once  more  becomes  clear,  bril- 
liant magenta.  This  illustrates  the  effect  of  a 
certain  smoking  mixture,  compounded  of  many 
herbs,  all  polysyllabic,  which  the  old  man  is 
now  prepared  to  sell  in  packets ;  a  little  of  it 
mixed  with  tobacco  kills  the  nicotine  and  ren- 
ders it  innocuous.  Some  little  distance  away 
an  old  woman  is  the  proprietor  of  a  model,  lit 
by  scraps  of  candle,  and  bearing  an  inscription  : 
"Kind  friends,  this  is  the  handiwork  of  my 
deceased  husband,  which  represents  a  gold 
mine.  By  paying  a  penny  the  figures  will 
work,  and  you  will  receive  a  planet  of  your 
fortune."  She  is  not  doing  very  good  busi- 
ness ;  a  man  with  a  barrow-load  of  caged  birds 
is  doing  better.  "The  air's  a  bit  sharpish,  else 
he'd  be  singin'  now,"  he  says  of  one  yellow  bird. 
"Sings  fit  to  bust  'isself,  'e  does.  And  quality  ! 
Any  fancier  'ud  pick  that  bird  out  among  a 
thousand."  It  seems  possible  to  sell  almost 
anything  in  the  Edgware  Road  on  Saturday 
night,  provided  that  the  price  is  low.  Cheap- 
ness has  a  greater  attraction  than  desirability. 


XL— AT  A  FIRE. 

ALTHOUGH  my  chambers  are  quite  at  the 
top  of  the  staircase,  I  sometimes,  when  I  am  in 
them,  hear,  involuntarily,  what  is  being  said  by 
a  passer-by.  There  are  voices  which  travel 
almost  any  distance.  To-night,  as  I  was  busily 
engaged  in  writing  a  popular  scientific  article, 
one  of  these  penetrating  voices  passed  under 
my  window,  and  sent  a  remark  skyward.  It 
looked  in  upon  me  on  its  way,  and  it  im- 
pressed me : 

"An"  it's  a  big  fire,  too." 

I  drew  back  the  curtain  and  looked  out. 
The  sky  was  positively  glorious,  and  one's  first 
instinct  was  to  wonder  why  we  could  not  have 
such  beauty  every  night.  When,  a  few  minutes 
afterward,  I  joined  the  crowd  in  the  Strand,  I 
could  not  but  notice  the  increase  of  life  and 
energy  and  brightness.  The  loafer  had  found 
a  new  interest,  and  walked  briskly  in  pursuit 


172  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

of  it.  Draggled,  dull-eyed  young  women,  join- 
ing the  hurrying  crowd,  grew  more  fervent  and 
spirited.  Urchins  dashed  past,  filled  with  de- 
lightful, unspeakable  excitement.  Even  the 
bare,  bald  face  of  the  Law  Courts  was  lighted 
up  with  a  roseate,  almost  illegal,  joyousness. 
Up  Wych  Street  and  up  Drury  Lane  went  the 
straggling  crowd,  knowing  the  way  as  crowds 
always  do.  An  old  man  standing  on  the  outside 
of  a  public  house,  and  thinking  about  the  inside, 
stayed  me  with  the  look  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, 
and  sought  from  me  a  lucifer  match.  "My  soul !" 
he  ejaculated,  as  he  tried  to  suck  the  flame  into 
the  fetid  remnants  of  tobacco  in  his  clay  pipe, 
"if  thet  should  be  a  theayter  now — thet  over 
theer!"  He  was  not  going  on  with  us  to 
assure  himself  on  this  point.  He  was  too  old 
to  hurry  much,  I  think,  and  he  still  had  hope 
that  some  kind  patron  might  take  him  in  and 
finance  his  drunkenness.  But  what  business 
had  he  to  damp  the  popular  enjoyment  by 
such  talk?  He  saw  only  the  disaster;  he  was 
too  old  to  feel  the  attraction  of  a  fire,  as  we 
did.  As  we  passed  down  Long  Acre  the  at- 


AT  A   FIRE.  173 

traction  almost  seemed  to  be  calling  us  in  intel- 
ligible language.  "Here  is  a  beautiful  show 
and  you  pay  nothing  to  see  it.  Thousands  of 
pounds'  worth  of  someone  else's  property  are 
being  destroyed.  Be  quick,  because  the  quick- 
est will  get  the  best  places.  Be  quick!" 

It  was  mean,  distinctly  mean,  of  the  voice  of 
the  fire  to  call  us  down  Long  Acre,  for  there 
were  certain  policemen  there  who  had  failed  to 
take *a  right  view  of  a  fire ;  instead  of  regarding 
it  as  a  show,  and  pointing  out  to  us  the  best 
places  from  which  to  see  it,  they  actually  stood 
in  our  way,  and  refused  to  let  us  interfere  with 
the  operations  of  the  firemen,  as  if  the  main 
object  were  to  put  out  the  fire  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. The  full  glories  of  Castle  Street  and 
Neal  Street,  where  the  fire  was  raging,  were 
hidden  from  us.  There  we  were — a  fair  sample 
of  the  people  of  London — longing  to  witness  a 
fine  artistic  effect,  and  willing  that  someone 
else  should  pay  any  price  for  it,  yet  prevented 
by  the  police !  We  stood  in  a  close  crowd  be- 
hind them ;  and  if  some  of  us  said  bitter  things 
to  them,  at  any  rate  we  did  not  behave  as 


I  74  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

badly  as  the  crowd  in  Endell  Street,  which 
broke  through  their  line.  We  could  see 
sparks,  and  smoke,  and  the  reddish-yellow 
glare;  we  could  see  occasionally  a  fireman's 
helmet ;  we  could  hear  the  regular  panting  of 
the  engines — we  had  not  altogether  lived  in 
vain.  One  small  boy,  with  an  important  ex- 
pression on  his  dirty  face,  was  seated  astride  a 
man's  shoulders  to  obtain  a  better  view.  He 
did  not  seem  to  know  the  man  in  the  least,  but 
simply  to  have  used  him  in  the  absence  of  a 
lamp-post.  His  conversation  was  chiefly  ad- 
dressed to  a  less  fortunate  little  boy  down 
below.  '"Ere's  another  injun,  Bill!"  he  cried, 
as  the  crowd  parted  right  and  left  to  make  way 
for  it.  There  was  one  that  sat  on  it  who  wore, 
not  helmet  and  uniform,  but  the  ordinary  hat 
and  overcoat.  The  small  boy  pointed  him  out 
at  once.  "And  that's  the  Prince  o' Wiles!"  he 
added  with  enthusiasm.  He  did  not  think  it. 
It  was  simply  that  the  hilariousness  of  the 
occasion  had  awakened  in  him  a  great  need 
which  only  wild,  almost  brilliant  mendacity 
could  satisfy.  This  hilariousness  was  apparent 


AT  A   FIRE.  l?5 

everywhere.  If  you  want  to  see  really  bright, 
happy  faces  in  London,  look  at  a  crowd  which 
is  watching  a  great  disaster.  But  presently 
the  small  boy  became  dissatisfied  with  the  lim- 
ited view  and  his  elevated  position.  "This 
'ere's  no  use,  Bill,"  he  said  meditatively.  "I 
know  the  plice — Covink  Gar'n."  He  climbed 
down  from  the  man,  without  taking  any  more 
notice  of  him  than  if  he  had  actually  been  a 
lamp-post,  and  went  off  with  Bill  to  James 
Street.  So  did  I. 

One  could  see  a  little  more  here.  At  the 
upper  end  of  the  street  the  scaffolding  of  an 
unfinished  building  had  been  converted  into  a 
grand  stand  by  the  crowd.  One  could  see  a 
wall  of  the  burning  building.  Flames  were 
lolling  out  of  the  windows  and  looking  at  us. 
The  wall  seemed  to  be  standing  alone,  black 
against  a  background  of  fire  and  bright  smoke. 
The  crowd  watched  it  intently,  knowing  that  it 
must  soon  fall,  and  whiled  away  the  time  by 
inventing,  and  subsequently  believing,  exag- 
gerated accounts  of  the  extent  of  the  conflagra- 
tion. At  last  the  wall  came  down,  in  rather  a 


1 76  PLAYTHINGS  AND   PARODIES. 

theatrical  way;  and  after  that  there  was  very 
little  left  for  anyone  to  see.  One  almost  ex- 
pected to  hear  an  orchestra  play  the  National 
Anthem,  and  see  the  audience  move  away, 
chatting  about  the  performance.  They  did 
not,  however,  move  away  at  once ;  crowds  are 
always  sanguine,  and  they  probably  waited  in 
the  hope  that  some  other  house  might  catch 
fire.  The  general  opinion  was  that  it  had  not 
been  a  bad  fire,  as  far  as  extent  goes ;  but  that 
the  style  was  poor,  and  that  it  was  lacking  in 
incident. 


XII.— OXFORD  STREET. 

A  CERTAIN  part  of  Oxford  Street  might  pos- 
sibly be  defined  as  the  mean  between  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  and  Regent  Street,  between  a 
narrow  escape  from  squalor  and  a  near  approach 
to  elegance.  But,  if  it  is  considered  as  a  whole, 
it  seems  too  great  for  any  brief  definition.  It 
merges  from  Holborn,  with  its  bookshops,  and 
restaurants,  and  certain  cure  for  corns.  It  takes 
upon  itself  the  glories  of  greater  and  more 
advertised  commerce.  It  tolerates  the  most 
unimportant  side  streets,  and  brushes  past  the 
professional  quarter  where  stethoscopes  and  re- 
spectability are  equally  common.  At  Regent 
Street  it  grows  a  little  uneasy ;  it  feels  that  it  is 
going  west,  and  must  make  an  effort.  It  rises ; 
not  only  does  it  go  up  a  hill,  it  also  seeks  a 
higher  culture,  and  begins  to  have  higher  social 
aims.  And  at  last  it  sees  the  northern  end  of 
Park  Lane,  and  dies  in  rapture.  Its  variety  is 


l?8  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

too  immense  to  be  held  by  any  meager  network 
of  words — any  paltry  definition.  It  has  its 
theater  and  does  not  disdain  its  musical  hall; 
and  if  its  amusements  or  its  commerce  should 
tend  to  make  it  too  worldly,  there  are  correct- 
ives at  hand — a  chapel  and  a  station  of  the 
Salvation  Army.  Its  traffic  knows  nothing  of 
social  distinction.  Two  fat  horses,  with  coats 
arsenically  glossy  and  opinions  about  bearing- 
reins,  have  the  honor  of  taking  their  mistress  to 
the  circulating  library.  Omnibus  after  omnibus 
is  willing  to  take  absolutely  anyone  to  the  Bank 
for  one  penny.  Through  the  maze  of  vehicles 
at  the  cross-streets  a  donkey,  respondent  to  the 
stick  and  the  expressions  of  the  proprietor  be- 
hind it,  miraculously  finds  its  .way.  A  cyclist 
dodges  a  cab,  and  the  cabman  is  rude  to  the 
cyclist.  The  ting  of  the  bell,  the  rattle  of 
wheels,  the  babble  of  voices,  make  up  the 
orchestra  to  which  this  performance  goes  on, 
as  it  seems,  continually — the  quaint  mixture  of 
tragedy,  comedy,  and  farce  that  fascinates  one 
every  day  in  a  great  London  thoroughfare. 
And  yet,  with  all  this  variety,  there  are  types 


OXFORD   STREET.  1 79 

which  seem  to  be  very  common.  Often  has 
one  seen  at  the  corner  of  Tottenham  Court 
Road  the  respectable  elderly  woman  telling  a 
story  to  another  respectable  elderly  woman 
while  she  waits  for  her  omnibus.  And  the 
story  is  always  too  long  for  the  time  at  her  dis- 
posal. "So  I  sez  nuthin'.  I  just  lets  him  run 
on.  'E  seemed  what  you  might  call  surprised, 
too,  at  my  not  answering  of  'im  back.  But, 
thinks  I  to  myself,  let  'im  talk  if  'e  wants  to 
talk,  knowin*  very  well  in  my  own  mind  as  'e'd 
be  very  sorry  for  it  arftwuds.  An'  larst  of  all 
I  sez:  'Might  I  arst  yur  a  pline  question  when 
you've  quite  done  all  that?'  And — bless  your 
soul ! — afore  'e  could  speak  another  word,  in  she 
come — the  girl  'erself  with  a  jug  o'  beer  in  'er 
'and  !  You  never  saw  a  man  so  took  aback  in 
all  your —  At  this  moment  the  cry  of 

"Lunbridge!  Lunbridge  Rylewye!"  breaks 
into  the  story.  "Well,  Eliza,  I  leave  yer  to  im- 
ajun  it,"  she  says,  as  she  turns  to  the  omnibus. 
Then  there  are  the  two  children  of  the  street 
gazing  at  the  brilliant  unwholesomeness  in  the 
confectioners'  window.  "I  should  like  to  'ave 


l8o  PL  A  Y  THINGS  AND  PAXODIES. 

some  of  them"  says  the  little  girl,  pointing,  with 
the  instinct  of  her  sex,  to  the  pinkest  sweet- 
meats in  the  collection.  The  little  boy,  with 
an  air  of  experience,  corrects  her.  "They  don't 
lawst.  Now,  did  yer  ever  'ave  any  of  those- — 
them  black  'uns  in  the  corner?  No?  Well,  I 
'ave,  then.  I  made  one  of  them  lawst  me  bes' 
part  of  a  day — off  and  on."  The  last  three 
words  are  terrible.  The  venders  of  penny  toys, 
double  numbers,  and  flowers,  are  all  permanent 
types.  Those  with  the  saddest  story,  fre- 
quently, with  some  inconsistency,  sell  the  fun- 
niest papers.  "Larst  number  of  'Screamin' 
Jokes' — one  penny,"  whines  one  shivering 
woman.  "Deer  lyedy,  do  buy,  and'elp  me  to 
get  a  bed  to-night.  A  thousand  laughs  for  one 
penny.  I've  got  children  to  feed,  kind  lyedy. 
Ill'strated  throughout."  The  women  who  have 
been  shopping  are  interesting.  It  is  sometimes 
possible  to  guess  what  their  negotiations  have 
been  inside  a  shop  from  the  expression  on  their 
faces  as  they  leave  it.  There  is  a  certain  masterly 
look  sometimes  seen  on  a  woman's  face  on  such 
occasions.  The  light  of  battle  gleams  in  her 


OXFORD   STREET.  181 

eyes.  One  knows  that  something  was  not  at 
all  what  she  had  ordered,  and  that  she  has 
made  them  take  it  back.  They  were  a  little 
reluctant  at  first,  but  they  had  to  give  way. 
She  triumphs,  and  within  the  shop  the  air  is 
thick  with  apologies.  There  is  the  woman  who 
emerges  from  the  glass  doors  with  rather  a 
troubled  look  in  her  eyes.  She  has  bought 
something,  and  thinks  she  has  given  rather  too 
much  for  it.  And  there  is  that  look  of  almost 
saintlike  ecstasy  which  marks  those  who  have 
perfectly  satisfied  themselves  and  anticipate 
envy.  All  may  be  seen  any  day  outside  the 
shops  in  Oxford  Street. 

Those  shop  windows  are  too  alluring.  It  is 
impossible  for  anyone,  of  either  sex  or  any  na- 
ture, to  get  down  Oxford  Street  without  either 
making  a  purchase  or  else  coveting  and  desir- 
ing. Covetousness  stands  open-eyed  before 
each  jeweler's  shop.  Reminiscence  also  has  its 
place  there.  It  is  always  a  delight  to  a  woman 
to  suddenly  come  upon  one  just  like  Maria's  in 
a  shop  window.  She  points  out  the  coincidence 
to  her  companion.  "There  yer  are,"  says  a  tall 


1 82  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

woman  in  black,  with  high  cheekbones  and 
decayed  bonnet;  "it  was  a  'arf  'oop,  an'  as  like 
that  as  two  pins.  I  don't  say  'e  ever  paid  four 
sov'rings  for  the  one  as  'e  give  'er.  Not  but 
what  'e  could  well  afford  it,  mind  yer.  But 
there — she  showed  me  'ers  last  Sunday  when  I 
was  down  Fulham,  and  that's  the  very  model 
of  it." 

On  Sundays  Oxford  Street  loses  some  of  its 
commercial  air.  Its  eyes  are  closed ;  its  shut- 
ters are  down.  The  traffic  still  goes  on,  but 
Oxford  Street  is  now  the  means  and  not  the 
end  ;  it  exists  not  as  a  bazaar,  but  as  a  road  from 
one  place  to  another.  The  Salvation  Army 
parade  it.  There  is  noise  enough  and  crowd 
enough  on  Sundays.  There  are  hours,  dark 
hours  in  the  early  morning,  when  the  street  is 
far  more  silent ;  even  the  traffic  has  gone.  One 
sees,  looking  down  it,  the  long  line  of  lights,  the 
gleam  of  wet  pavements,  the  closed  shutters, 
the  dreariness  and  emptiness.  The  street,  like 
the  face  of  a  man.  looks  quite  different  in  sleep. 


XIII.— NOON  IN  JUDEA. 

THE  East  of  London  is  a  large  district — 
so  large  that  there  is  room  in  it  for  variety. 
There  is  space  for  the  Jew  to  be  essentially 
Jewish,  for  the  workman  to  work  or  to  agitate, 
for  the  thief  to  thieve,  for  the  murderer  to  mur- 
der, and  for  the  police  to  catch  him  if  they  can. 
Close  to  the  noisy  main  street,  with  the  crowds 
and  the  many  vehicles  of  noon,  rests  the  quiet 
group  of  the  old  Trinity  almshouses;  the  flag 
in  the  center  of  their  inclosure  is  half-mast  high 
to-day — peaceful  death  on  one  side  of  the  pave- 
ment and  the  war  of  life  on  the  other.  Over 
the  gate  of  the  inclosure  a  notice  forbids  the 
entrance  of  strangers,  hawkers,  perambulators, 
beggars,  or  dogs.  So  peace  may  be  possible 
there;  but  I  ranked  in  one  or  more  of  these 
prohibited  classes,  and  I  could  not  enter.  I 
could  only  admire  the  flowers,  gazing  strenu- 
ously through  the  gateway,  and  then  pass  far- 
183 


1 84  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

ther  westward  to  Whitechapel,  where  flowers 
in  their  native  soil  are  of  less  account  than  fruit 
on  barrows.  Even  the  main  thoroughfare  is 
full  of  variety ;  it  varies  with  the  day  and  the 
hour.  Not  every  day,  as  in  the  time  of  the 
Dock  Strikes,  does  one  see  the  hungry  crowd 
gathered  outside  the  "Food  and  Shelter"  of 
the  Salvation  Army.  Not  every  hour,  as  now, 
have  the  street  loafers  the  always  new,  and  to 
them  inexpensive,  pleasure  of  a  street  accident. 
This  time,  I  learn,  a  van  and  two  horses  have 
attempted  to  perforate  a  wall.  They  have 
failed,  and  have  been  removed.  There  is  noth- 
ing left  but  a  little  blood,  slowly  mixing  with 
the  dust  and  mud  of  the  pavement,  around 
which  the  crowd  stands  and  entertains  conject- 
ures. Whitechapel  at  noon,  with  the  watery 
sunlight  coming  fitfully  through  a  sky  of  almost 
even  gray,  looks  one  thing  to  me ;  to  the  work- 
man who  lives  here,  as  he  comes  back  from  his 
work  at  night,  though  it  should  be  earlier,  and 
sees  the  lighted  clock  of  St.  Mary's  winking 
drowsily  at  him  through  the  fog,  Whitechapel 
looks  something  quite  different.  As  I  turn  up 


NOON  IN  JUDEA.  185 

Petticoat  Lane,  I  remember  that  if  I  had  come 
on  a  Sunday  morning,  I  should  have  found  it 
far  more  crowded,  and  the  Jewish  population 
would  have  been  busy  there  with  gambling  and 
speculation.  The  poverty  of  the  East  is  bril- 
liant with  variety  in  its  outward  aspect.  It  is 
only  from  within  that  one  feels  sure  that  to 
many  life  must  seem  but  a  dull  monotone, 
made  lurid  at  rare  intervals  with  some  cheap 
sensuality. 

The  names  painted  over  the  shop  doors,  the 
faces  of  the  people  in  the  streets,  and  the  lan- 
guage they  speak  proclaim  their  Jewish  origin. 
It  has  been  computed  that  there  are  not  less 
that  sixty  thousand  Jews  in  London.  The 
other  nations  would  have  none  of  them,  and 
England,  crowded  as  she  was  and  is,  found 
room  for  them ;  or  they  found  it  for  them- 
selves. As  one  passes  through  the  squalid 
streets,  and  watches  the  crowds  of  the  poorer, 
though  not  of  the  utterly  destitute  class,  one 
wonders  if  the  Jews — of  this  quarter,  at  least — 
do  not  still  sigh  at  times  for  the  flesh-pots  of 
Egypt. 


1 86  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

There  are  grades  in  their  poverty.  It  would 
be  unsafe,  perhaps,  to  estimate  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  shop  the  income  of  its  Jewish 
proprietor;  but  the  shop  has  a  more  substan- 
tial air  than  the  barrow ;  the  salesman  at  the 
barrow  seems  in  a  position  of  permanent  com- 
fort when  compared  with  the  hawker  who  has 
to  carry  his  own  tray;  and  the  hawker  should 
surely  pity  those  hollow-eyed,  narrow-chested, 
unshaven  men,  with  the  wisp  of  flannel  round 
their  throats,  and  their  coats  buttoned  as  tight- 
ly as  the  presence  of  buttons  will  permit,  who 
slink  softly  and  sadly  along  under  the  shadow 
of  the  wall,  or  stand  gazing  vacantly  at  the 
street  corners.  In  Wentworth  Street  there  are 
lines  of  these  barrows  on  either  side.  At  one 
there  are  leeks  and  gherkins  to  suit  the  Jewish 
palate,  at  another  there  are  neat  rows  of 
Hebrew  books,  wax  tapers,  and  little  tin  boxes 
with  thongs  attached  to  them,  to  suit  the  Jew- 
ish form  of  faith.  At  others  there  are  bright- 
colored  prints,  or  ornaments  of  imitation  tor- 
toise shell  appealing  to  a  love  of  finery  which 
is  not  characteristic  only  of  the  Jewess;  for 


NOON  IN  JUDEA. 


Wentworth  Street  and  the  neighborhood  have 
by  no  means  sunk  so  low  as  to  altogether  neg- 
lect appearances.  There  are  bright  feathers  in 
the  hats  of  the  girls  who  come  streaming  down 
Commercial  Street  in  the  dinner  hour.  There 
is  a  certain  similarity  in  their  dress.  Velvet 
or  cognate  material  is  popular.  Jackets  and 
gloves  are  not  worn  as  a  rule ;  though  the 
former  may  be  carried  in  the  hand  and  used 
to  kill  flies  on  the  wall.  Probably  the  older 
women  who  are  shopping  in  Wentworth  Street 
know  that  they  do  not  look  altogether  unpic- 
turesque  with  the  crimson  or  scarlet  shawl  over 
their  black  hair.  There  are,  of  course,  any 
number  of  shops  for  the  sale  of  second-hand 
clothes;  and  one  dusty,  grimy  building  in  the 
neighborhood  bears  the  imposing  title  of  "Ex- 
hibition and  Clothes  Exchange."  Not  far  from 
it  one  sees  a  mysterious  notice  informing  us 
that  "The  Noah's  Ark  Dress  Suit"  can  be 
hired.  Conjecture  or  question  would  be  un- 
wise; to  read  such  a  notice  is  to  feel  at  once 
that  there  are  some  things  which  it  is  better 
not  to  know. 


1 88  PLA  y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

The  children  are  not  apparently  much  exer- 
cised on  the  question  of  dress.  They  sit  down 
when  they  are  tired,  or  when  they  happen  to 
think  about  it,  and  they  never  reflect  that  the 
muddy  curbstone  may  spoil  their  apparel.  As 
a  rule,  the  muddiest  curbstone  would  find  the 
task  difficult.  I  noticed  one  girl  make  certain 
cabalistic  marks  all  across  the  pavement  with 
white  chalk.  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be  hop- 
scotch, but  it  was  not.  When  she  had  com- 
pleted the  lines,  she  seated  herself  placidly 
against  the  wall,  and  swore  at  any  passer-by 
who  happened  to  tread  on  them.  She  was 
evidently  waiting  for  some  companion  to  take 
part  in  the  game.  On  the  hard,  smooth  road 
in  Harrow  Alley  roller  skating  was  going  on. 
One  pair  of  skates  is  enough  for  three  boys. 
Two  of  them  wear  a  skate  on  one  foot  and 
push  themselves  along  with  the  other.  The 
other  boy  runs  behind  and  says  that  it  is  his 
turn.  The  gravity  of  some  of  these  children  is 
most  extraordinary.  They  play  practical  jokes 
on  one  another  with  absolutely  unmoved  faces, 
or  with  one  terrible  grin.  Possibly  they  have 


NOON  IN  JUDEA.  189 

already  found  out  the  seriousness  of  every- 
thing, and  have  no  time  to  waste  on  the  pro- 
longed giggle  of  the  amused  aristocrat.  Many 
of  these  children  have  the  most  beautiful  faces, 
but  their  hair  is  often  spoiled  by  being  twisted 
into  an  absurd  sort  of  top-knot  or  by  a  painful 
artificial  shininess.  Among  the  women  one 
sees  of  course  a  number  of  brown  wigs.  They 
do  not  pretend  to  be  anything  but  wigs. 
Sometimes  they  are  pushed  a  little  backward, 
and  a  fringe  of  the  natural  hair  shows  in  front. 
The  whole  place  is  full  of  incongruities.  At 
one  of  the  barrows  a  tall,  fine  woman  is  stand- 
ing. She  has  a  Spanish  face,  and  liquid,  tragic 
eyes.  Her  age  may  be  anything  between  forty 
and  sixty.  Pity  and  contempt  are  expressed  in 
her  gaze.  How  stately  and  magnificent  she 
would  look  before  the  footlights,  a  queen  of 
tragedy,  with  the  best  blank  verse  falling 
rhythmically  from  her  full  lips!  At  the  pres- 
ent time  she  is  differing  with  the  proprietor  of 
the  barrow  as  to  the  price  of  certain  vegetables. 
One  notices  that  the  Jew  loves  to  deal  in  com- 
modities of  which  the  prices  fluctuate,  such  as 


19°  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

green  grocery.  Or,  again,  one  passes  many  a 
stall  where  the  frayed  garments  of  last  year  are 
sold  and  finds  close  at  hand  a  little  shop  hung 
with  old  armor.  A  tin  hat-case  of  curious 
shape  recalls  a  fashion  of  many  years  ago. 
When  shall  we  wear  three-cornered  hats  again? 
And  had  the  bright  and  beautiful  people  who 
wore  them  of  yore  anything  in  common  with 
that  gaudy  youth  yonder  who  is  bargaining  for 
more  second-hand  brilliancies.  Amid  such 
scenes  one  recalls  the  words  of  the  gentle  and 
genial  Teufelsdrockh :  "Often,  while  I  sojourned 
in  that  monstrous  tuberosity  of  civilized  life, 
the  capital  of  England— and  meditated  and 
questioned  destiny,  under  that  ink-sea  of  vapor, 
black,  thick,  and  multifarious  as  Spartan  broth 
— and  was  one  lone  soul  amid  those  grinding 
millions — often  have  I  turned  into  their  old 
clothes  market  to  worship."  The  reason,  it 
will  be  remembered,  was  that  the  philosopher 
desired  to  worship  man  as  the  Temple  of  the 
Divinity,  but  that  man  had  the  misfortune  to 
be  also  possessed  of  the  devil,  and  vanity,  the 
"clearest  phasis"  of  the  devil,  would  have  ap- 


NOON  IN  JUDAEA.  I91 

propriated  the  worship ;  and  so  Teufelsdrockh 
was  constrained  instead  "to  do  reverence  to 
those  shells  and  outer  husks  of  the  body,"  to 
cast-off  clothes.  Less  far-fetched  reasons  have 
led  to  more  than  one  variety  here  of  another 
form  of  worship.  Laborarc  cst  orare.  The 
service  of  man,  whether  in  connection  with 
other  services  or  not,  profits  more  than  the 
ironical  devotion  of  that  imaginary  and  imag- 
inative philosopher.  Nor  is  it  limited  to  that 
fragment  of  the  great  East  End  in  which  I 
lingered  for  a  few  minutes  to-day,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Toynbee  and  St.  Jude's. 


XIV.— AT  KEW. 

I  HAD  mounted  to  the  outside  of  a  four- 
horse  omnibus.  There  is  a  combination  of 
pomp  and  cheapness  about  a  four-horse  omni- 
bus that  always  pleases  me.  Besides,  it  is 
more  appropriate  to  a  Bank  holiday.  It  has 
a  festive  appearance  not  to  be  found  in  the 
lowlier  two-horse  conveyance.  The  very  horses 
seem  to  be  filled  with  the  dignity  of  the  thing; 
the  driver  wears  a  better  hat  and  smokes  a 
browner  cigar;  no  one  could  guess  that  some- 
where in  its  black  past  this  same  omnibus  was 
in  the  habit  of  carrying  clerks  to  the  City  for 
an  ordinary  penny.  It  is  difficult  to  ride  on  a 
four-horse  omnibus  without  looking  joyous; 
but  out  of  pride  I  attempted  it. 

The  drive  was  almost  entirely  without  inci- 
dents. We  paused  at  a  public  house,  after  we 
had  gone  through  Hammersmith,  and  the  bet- 
ter sort  of  us  drank  glasses  of  stout,  and  ate 


AT  KEW.  193 

buns.  We  crossed  to  Kew  Bridge  with  consider- 
able spirit  and  dash ;  and  there  I  descended  to 
mingle  with  the  brilliant  throng  in  the  road  that 
skirts  the  green.  I  went  straight  on  to  the  Gar- 
dens, not  stopping  to  buy  a  mouth  organ,  a  tin 
money  box,  a  fragment  of  terrible  pineapple 
rock,  or  any  of  the  other  goods  offered  for  sale 
on  the  line  of  stalls.  At  the  stately  entrance 
to  the  Gardens  I  paused  for  a  moment ;  and 
there  I  read  the  notice  which  says  that  only 
the  decently  dressed  are  allowed  to  enter. 
Through  the  gateway  I  could  see  the  blood-red 
waistcoat  and  the  flashing  buttons  of  one  who 
doubtless  would  enforce  this  order. 

As  a  general  rule  I  am  law-abiding.  But  it 
seemed  cruel  that  I  should  have  come  so  far 
and  then  be  rejected  at  the  very  gates;  so  I 
waited  my  opportunity,  and  when  for  a  moment 
the  head  of  the  janitor  was  averted,  I  effected 
my  entrance.  Kew  Gardens  are  not  as  Hamp- 
stead  Heath  on  an  August  Bank  holiday;  here 
one  almost  trembles  in  the  presence  of  the  great 
decorum.  For  the  most  part,  the  visitors  to 
the  Kew  Gardens  represented  the  more  respec- 


194  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 


table  of  the  lower  middle  classes.  They  saw 
notices  forbidding  them  to  walk  on  the  edge 
of  the  grass,  and  they  were  obedient ;  they 
knocked  out  their  pipes,  as  the  law  demanded, 
before  entering  the  holy  hothouses ;  they  gazed 
on  the  prim  flower-beds  and  drank  in  the  spirit 
of  perfect  formality.  But  all  were  not  quite 
tame.  The  children  were  natural.  And  that 
young  man  of  London  whom  the  humorists  have 
called  'Any  tmt  who  calls  himself  'Erry  (unless 
he  is  Cholly  or  Albut),  was  just  as  vivid  and 
ebullient  here  as  he  is  everywhere  on  Bank  holi- 
day. The  only  real  objection  to  keeping  chil- 
dren is  that  they  grow  up  ;  it  was  sad  to  think 
that  the  lovely  child  probably  would  become 
the  unlovely  Cholly. 

In  the  essay  "Of  Love"  we  read:  "This 
Passion  hath  its  Flouds,  in  the  very  times  of 
Weaknesse ;  which  are,  great  Prosperitic ;  and 
great  Adversitie"  Bank  holiday  is  one  of  the 
"times  of  Weaknesse"  for  the  young  man  of 
London.  It  is  then,  above  all  other  times,  that 
he  allows  his  fancy  to  lightly  turn.  One  noticed 
this  in  the  gravel  walks  and  shaded  alleys  of 


AT  KEVV.  195 

Kew.  On  every  garden-seat  there  seemed  to  be 
two  people,  of  opposite  sexes,  seated — a  blot 
on  the  decorum.  The  attitude  in  every  case 
seemed  to  be  the  same ;  there  was  a  gallant  dis- 
regard of  publicity  about  it.  Owing  to  the 
arrangement  of  the  paths,  one  could  not  always 
avoid  giving  surprises.  I  never  wanted  to  hear 
Albert  refused  by  the  only  woman  whom  he 
could  think  about  seriously;  but  the  sudden 
turn  of  the  path  left  me  no  option.  I  have 
noticed  that  the  presence  of  female  society 
always  makes  a  marked  difference  in  these 
young  men ;  it  either  lowers  or  heightens  their 
tone.  Sometimes  it  lowers  it  almost  to  the 
point  of  imbecility.  As  the  crowd  passed  in 
procession  through  one  of  the  houses,  the  exi- 
gencies of  space  forced  me  to  keep  immediately 
behind  Frenk  and  to  hear  what  he  said  to  her. 
He  called  everything  "nice"  or  "very  nice." 
He  called  a  giant  cactus  from  Mexico  which  is 
something  like  a  prickly  bolster  standing  on 
end,  "really  very  nice."  Regard  for  her  had 
destroyed  in  him  all  perception  of  quality  in 
other  things.  It  was  almost  pathetic ;  she  was 


I96  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

not  so  deeply  affected,  and  noticed  all  the  main 
points  in  the  vegetable  and  animal  contents  of 
the  grass  house.  "See  there,  that's  grown  all 
skew-wise.  That  one's  more  like  india-rubber 
than  anything."  Then  in  a  hushed  whisper,  not 
to  be  heard  by  the  girl  a  little  way  in  front  of 
them  :  "Owdjerlike  me  to  'ave  my  'air  done  like 
that?"  The  young  man  is  at  his  worst  when 
love  has  heightened  his  tone,  and  made  him 
jocular  and  noisy.  He  picks  up  the  cast  feath- 
ers of  birds,  and  sticks  them  in  his  hat ;  if  he  is 
carrying  any  garment  for  her,  he  puts  it  on  him- 
self humorously ;  he  rushes  humorously  at  a  low 
fence  as  though  he  would  jump  it ;  it  is  not  only 
humor  which  prevents  him  from  making  the 
attempt ;  then  he  makes  a  personal  remark 
about  the  nearest  old  lady  and  whistles.  "I  do 
wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  sarcastic,  Awthur," 
says  his  fair  companion. 

The  interest  in  the  Gardens  themselves  did 
not  seem  to  be  an  interest  in  botany.  In  a 
secluded  part  of  the  Gardens  I  noticed  some- 
thing which  was  wanting  to  be  a  tree.  So  far  it 
had  only  got  seven  feet  of  stem,  absolutely  bare 


AT  KEW.  197 

except  for  the  label,  and  one  bough  at  the  top 
of  it — a  small,  solitary  bough  that  looked  mel- 
ancholy, as  if  it  wished  it  were  greener.  An 
old  gentleman  with  a  thin  white  face,  a  stoop, 
and  a  silk  hat  much  too  large  for  him,  was  ex- 
amining the  label  with  an  interest  which  I  felt 
sure  must  be  scientific.  But  I  have  no  positive 
proof  that  he  was  a  botanist.  Most  of  the  vis- 
itors had  come  with  the  intention  of  visiting  all 
the  main  features  of  the  Gardens,  and  had  no 
time  for  such  minor  matters  as  labels.  There 
were  the  glass  houses,  the  pagoda,  the  North  col- 
lection, the  museums,  the  refreshment  house — 
all  requiring  inspection.  The  refreshment  house 
is  intensely  rustic,  with  striped  awnings,  and 
climbing  plants,  and  hanging  baskets  of  flowers. 
I  lunched  there.  The  museums  seemed  to  be 
used  more  as  a  shelter  from  the  rain  than  as 
collections  of  scientific  interest.  Museums  de- 
mand so  much  previous  knowledge;  letters 
written  in  Tamil  on  palmyra  leaves  would  be 
more  interesting  if  one  could  read  Tamil ;  the 
band  of  cotton  cloth,  which — the  label  tells  us 
— is  the  only  garment  worn  by  Toddymen, 


I98  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

offers  chances  to  the  humorist ;  but,  then,  what 
are  Toddymen?  Possibly  the  information  is 
on  some  label  that  I  did  not  see ;  I  rarely  lin- 
ger in  museums.  Possibly,  it  is  in  the  official 
guides;  I  never  buy  official  guides;  they  take 
the  poetry  out  of  everything. 

As  I  stood  outside  the  Gardens  waiting  for 
the  omnibus,  I  saw  two  men  leaning  sadly 
against  a  wall.  One  was  bad-tempered  and  the 
other  was  fatuous. 

"Got  any  more  money  fer  booze?"  inquired 
the  first. 

"No,"  said  the  other,  shaking  his  feeble  head, 
"I  aint." 

"And  yer  call  this  Bangkoldy!"  said  his 
companion  vindictively. 

"I  begun  mine  last  night — that's  'ow  it  is." 

"You  aint  a  man  whot  one  can  depend  on," 
observed  the  first  moodily,  as  he  moved  away. 


XV.— "BANGKOLDY"  AT  HAMP- 
STEAD  HEATH. 

THE  real  nature  of  a  worker  is  best  seen  on 
his  holiday.  The  routine  of  business  does  not 
permit  the  display  of  much  individuality. 
Three  grocer's  assistants  each  wearing  a  white 
apron,  each  tying  up  a  pound  of  sugar,  and 
each  making  the  same  remark  on  the  weather, 
are  very  similar  and  not  very  interesting ;  they 
have  conformed  to  a  type.  A  Bank  holiday 
sets  the  individuality  free.  One  of  our  three 
puts  on  flannels,  and  plays  cricket  all  day  in  the 
sun  ;  athleticism  shows  itself,  and  one  can  learn 
still  more  of  the  man's  character  from  noticing 
his  behavior  when  he  is  given  out  1.  b.  w.  The 
second  wears  all  the  more  recent  additions  to 
his  wardrobe  and  takes  a  young  lady  to  Rosh- 
erville;  here  are  the  rudiments  of  a  man  of 
fashion.  A  third  stops  in  bed  till  midday,  and 
then  takes  a  walk  in  Brompton  Cemetery.  His 


200  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

individuality  is  not,  perhaps,  quite  obvious,  for 
routine  has  broken  him.  But  if  he  were  richer, 
he  would  probably  have  a  little  volume  of 
minor  verse  published. 

Man's  necessity  is  the  tram  company's  oppor- 
tunity. During  the  morning  and  afternoon  the 
yellow  trams  were  all  crowded  with  passengers 
on  their  way  to  Hampstead  Heath.  Shortly 
before  noon  they  were  swarming  up  the  streets 
in  the  vicinity.  There  were  small  children  in 
charge  of  smaller  children ;  groups  of  girls  with 
bright  eyes  and  a  certain  freedom  of  manner; 
women  of  swarthy  complexion,  with  white  or 
brilliantly  colored  handkerchiefs  on  their  heads, 
some  of  them  with  trained  birds  in  cages  to 
assist  them  in  probing  the  secrets  of  destiny; 
young  men  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  looking 
very  proud  of  the  young  women,  also  in  Sun- 
day clothes,  whom  they  were  escorting;  urchins 
with  pence  in  their  pockets  and  a  tumble  from 
a  hired  donkey  in  their  immediate  future;  and 
fat  babies  in  creaking  perambulators,  wheeled 
by  anxious  mothers,  and  personally  conducted 
by  good-humored,  pipe-smoking  fathers.  All 


"  BANGKOLD  Y"  AT  HAMPSTEAD  HE  A  TH.      201 

were  seeking  the  fresh  air,  and  sunlight,  and 
green  open  spaces ;  and  the  artificial  allurements 
of  swings,  shows,  and  sandwiches.  The  top  of 
the  Heath  was  a  bright  and  animated  scene. 
Against  the  water  on  one  side  of  the  road  don- 
keys could  be  hired.  One  little  boy  was  select- 
ing a  donkey  and  being  advised  in  his  choice  of 
an  animal  by  another  little  boy  who  had  the  air 
of  wisdom.  '  'Ev  that  'un,  'Enry,".  says  Men- 
tor. "I  rid  'im  myself,  and  'e  can  go  proper. 
You  doan  want  no  stick.  Kick  'im  in  the 
stomick.  'E  can't  feet  nowhere  else."  On  the 
other  side  of  the  road  were  the  swings,  stalls 
for  the  sale  of  cheap  refreshments,  and  penny 
shows.  Each  row  of  swings  had  a  man  with  a 
mechanical  piano  near  it;  and  I  noticed  that 
the  music  never  would  keep  time  with  the 
motion  of  the  swings.  I  did  not  myself  care  to 
visit  any  of  the  monstrosities;  but  anyone  who 
was  moved  by  the  spirit  of  scientific  research, 
or  by  other  motives,  had  a  chance  of  seeing  a 
six-legged  dog,  and  something  which  was  said 
to  be  a  boy  and  a  girl  joined  together.  In  the 
crowd  here,  or  further  down  in  the  vale,  where 


202  PLA  YTHINGS  AND   PARODIES. 

more  shows  were  grouped,  the  cries  from  the 
hawkers  and  the  keepers  of  the  booths  made 
one  continuous  roar.  "All  the  fun  of  the  fair, 
all  the  jolly  fun !"  shouts  one  man  who  is  sell- 
ing scent-squirts.  "Ask  'em  what  they  think  of 
the  show  when  they  come  out,"  is  the  request 
of  one  booth  proprietor,  who  knows  that,  in  the 
fallen  condition  of  human  nature,  a  man  who 
has  been  fooled  finds  no  surer  consolation  than 
to  see  his  fellow-man  fooled  in  the  same  way. 
"We  change  all  the  bad  'uns,"  is  an  additional 
inducement  to  have  three  shies  at  the  cocoa- 
nuts.  '  'It  'im  as  'ard  as  yer  like !  Crack'  im 
over  the  'ead !  Three  shies  a  penny !"  was 
the  invitation  to  a  somewhat  barbarous  form  of 
amusement,  which  may  sometimes  be  seen  at 
some  of  the  racecourses.  A  man  thrusts  his 
head  through  a  hole  in  a  screen,  and  you  throw 
wooden  balls  at  that  head.  It  looks,  probably, 
more  dangerous  than  it  really  is.  The  man  in 
this  case  dodged  well;  and  he  wore  a  wig, 
which  would  be  some  protection.  At  any  rate, 
I  did  not  see  him  butchered  tc  make  a  British 
holiday. 


' '  BANGKOLD  Y"  A  T  HAM  PS  TEAD  HE  A  TH.      203 

But  the  crowd  are  better  to  look  at  than  any 
show.  They  are  attracted  by  such  monstrosi- 
ties and  cruelties  as  I  have  mentioned ;  they 
make,  it  must  be  owned,  a  perfectly  terrific 
noise;  they  will  defile  the  Heath  with  greasy 
newspapers  and  scraps  of  food  from  their  pic- 
nics; yet  a  man  would  require  a  very  mean 
mind  to  feel  no  affection  for  them  and  no  sym- 
pathy with  their  boisterous  enjoyment  on  a 
sunny  day.  Fine  holidays  are  not  so  common 
with  them  that  they  can  afford  to  devote  them 
to  a  study  of  culture.  They  are  not,  at  any 
rate,  selfish  or  self-conscious;  their  happiness  is 
free  and  natural.  There  is  more  of  the  spirit  of 
camaraderie  on  Hampstead  Heath  during  the 
August  Bank  holiday  than  could  be  found  in 
Piccadilly  during  the  whole  season.  Each  man 
is  ready  to  play  a  practical  joke  on  his  neigh- 
bor, but  he  is  equally  ready  to  do  him  a  good 
turn.  I  stood  on  the  top  of  some  rising 
ground,  from  which  one  could  see  a  good  deal 
of  the  Heath.  It  was  shortly  after  noon,  and 
the  midday  meal  was  commencing.  All  over 
the  Heath  were  scattered  little  groups,  eating 


204  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

and  laughing.  The  fat  babies  had  all  got  out 
of  their  perambulators  and  were  crawling  about 
the  grass  in  all  directions.  Below  me  were 
the  whirl  and  noise  of  the  steam  roundabout. 
Crowds  were  passing  to  and  fro  from  one  group 
of  stalls  to  the  next,  the  cheap,  bright-colored 
dresses  of  the  girls  looking  pretty  enough  at 
a  little  distance.  The  sunlight  flashed  and 
sparkled  on  the  water,  where  bare-legged  boys 
were  paddling.  There  was  always  a  crowd 
around  the  ponds ;  the  presence  of  water  in  any 
considerable  quantity  had  the  charm  of  novelty 
for  many.  Altogether,  there  were  brightness, 
and  energy,  and  enthusiasm  everywhere. 

On  the  West  Heath  there  was  more  quiet 
and  seclusion ;  there,  under  the  shade  of  the 
trees,  among  ferns  that  grow  breast  high,  more 
decorous  people  held  more  somber  picnics.  I 
only  saw  one  person  reading.  She  was  not 
very  pretty,  and  she  wore  spectacles.  She  was 
one  of  the  very  few  who  were  quite  without 
companions.  I  came  suddenly  upon  her  among 
the  ferns.  She  was  reading  a  novel  of  the  cir- 
culating libraries,  and  for  a  few  moments  she 


"  BANGKOLD  Y"  A  T  HAMPSTEAD  HEA  TH.      205 

had  ceased  to  be  conscious  that  she  was  a  plain, 
spectacled,  solitary  girl,  whose  finger-tips  told 
her  profession.  She  was  that  beautiful  and 
passionate  heroine,  Gwendoline,  sitting  in  a 
dim-lit  conservatory,  tired  of  the  brilliant  glare 
of  the  ballroom,  and  being  assured  spasmodi- 
cally of  the  constant  love  of  a  handsome  peer, 
in  the  usual  "faultless  evening  dress." 


THE  GHOST  OF  "GHOSTS." 


THE  GHOST  OF  "GHOSTS." 

FROM    "  EVERY   MAN   HIS   OWN   IBSEN." 

A  spacious  garden-room,  with,  one  door  to  the  left  and  two 
doors  to  the  right.  In  the  center  of  the  room  is  another  door, 
•with  a  window  rather  more  in  the  foreground.  A  small  sofa 
stands  in  front  of  it.  In  the  backgroztnd  are  two  more  doors, 
the  right-hand  door  leading  to  the  conservatory,  from  which  a 
door  opens  into  the  garden,  from  which  another  door  opens  into 
the  street.  Through  a  window  between  the  first  two  doors  one 
catches  a  glimpse  of  a  gloomy  tool-shed,  from  which  a  door  leads 
into  the  conservatory.  A  staircase  runs  from  the  third  window 
to  the  fourteenth  door.  There  are  books  and  periodicals  on  the 
staircase,  and  a  piano  on  the  hire  system.  So  now  you  know 
exactly  what  the  scene  is  like. 

MRS.  ALVING  stands  with  a  shawl  on  her  head — (a  little 
ambiguous,  but  you  can  see  what  is  meant) — in  front  of  the 
right-hand  window.  OSWALD  MANTALINI  ALVING,  her  son, 
stands  partly  in  front  of  her  and  partly  behind  her.  PASTOR 
CHADBAND  MANDERS  is  winding  up  the  clock.  REGINA  is 
seated  at  the  piano  cleaning  his  boots. 

OSWALD  (drearily).     Tic-tac,  tic-tac,  tic-tac ! 

MRS.  ALVING.  I  beg  your  pardon? 

OSWALD.  I  wish  I  were  a  clock,  dearest 
mother.  I  feel  that  I  want  someone  to  regu- 
late my  actions.  I  am  so  afraid — afraid  of  my- 
209 


210  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

self  and  the  darkness.  I  do  not  know,  some- 
times, what  I  shall  do  next.  And  what  a  ter- 
rible night  it  is !  (A  pause?)  I  want  Regina, 
mother.  She  would  save  me  from  myself. 
When  the  dread  comes  on  me,  raging  and  tear- 
ing— don't  scream — I  feel  the  need  of  her.  I 
want  many  things.  I  am  thirsty,  always  thirsty. 
I  want  to  drink  champagne. 

(A  sharp  click  is  heard?) 

MANDERS.  I  have  broken  the  mainspring  of 
your  clock,  Mrs.  Alving.  It  is  a  judgment  upon 
this  abode  of  sin. 

(He  goes  out  hurriedly  through  the  window.} 

OSWALD.  I  am  going  to  smoke — you're  not 
to  scream.  (Aside)  Oh,  the  bitterness  of  having 
a  fog-horn  for  a  mother !  And  yet  I  love  her. 

(He  draws  a  large  meerschaum  from  his 
pocket.) 

MRS.  ALVING.  Why,  that  was  your  father's 
pipe — no,  my  dear  and  only  son,  you  must  not 
smoke  in  here. 

OSWALD.  I  must,  mother.  I  want  to  be 
happy.  (Lights  pipe.)  I  can  remember  it  all 
so  distinctly. 


THE   GHOST  OF  "GHOSTS."  21 1 

MRS. ALVING.  What?    Why?    Who? 

OSWALD.  I  was  seven  years  old.  I  had  taken 
this  pipe  from  my  father's  room,  and  I  was 
smoking  it.  He  found  me  doing  it,  and  took 
me  across  his  knee — 

MRS.  ALVING  (correcting  him  quickly).  Took 
you  on  his  knee,  you  mean.  He  always  petted 
his  dear  boy. 

OSWALD.  No,  across  his  knee. 

MRS.  ALVING.  Ah !  he  was  brimming  over 
with  the  joy  of  life.  He  would  jest  with  you, 
but  he  loved  you.  He  was  an  indulgent  parent. 
If  you  wanted  anything,  he  would  give  it  you. 

OSWALD  (smiling  sadly).  He  did  give  it  me 
—with  a  slipper. 

MRS.  ALVING.  Oh,  you  can  recollect  nothing 
of  those  times.  You  were  too  young  to  under- 
stand— to  feel  things  properly. 

OSWALD  (still  smiling  sadly}.  But  I  did  feel 
it  properly,  I  can  tell  you. 

MANDERS  (puts  his  head  in  at  the  other 
window).  My  boots? 

REGINA  (petulantly).  They  are  not  done 
yet,  sir. 


212  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

MANDERS.  They  ought  to  be  done.  You 
have  been  all  your  life  under  the  dominion  of  a 
pestilent  spirit  of  self-will.  (Playfully)  O 
Reginah ! 

(He  removes  his  head — from  the  window, 
that  is) 

OSWALD.  Do  you  want  me  to  be  happy, 
mother? 

MRS.  ALVING.  You  know,  my  dear  son,  that 
I  live  for  you  alone.  You  are  the  soul  of 
my  soul.  You  are  my  life,  my  world,  my 
Oswald  Mantalini !  How  can  you  ask  me 
that?  (More  slowly)  Yes;  I  want  you  to — be — 
happy. 

(A  pause.  Harmonium  in  Orchestra,  with 
the  tremulant  stop  out,  plays  '  Rocked  in  the 
Cradle  of  the  Deep1  very  softly.  Mrs.  Ah  ing 
seats  herself  on  the  sofa.  Oswald  draws  a 
chair  to  her  side,  and  buries  his  head  in  his 
hands.) 

OSWALD  (slowly  exhuming  his  head).  Then, 
if  that  be  so,  you  must  not  let  me  think.  If  I 
think,  I  shall — don't  scream — I  really  shall,  and 
it  will  be  your  fault.  It  is  not  enough  for  me 


THE   GHOST  OF  "GHOSTS."  213 

to  smoke.  I  must  also  drink  champagne  con- 
stantly. 

MRS.  ALVING.  Yes;  but,  my  dear  Oswald, 
when  you  consider  how  much  you  have  al- 
ready  

OSWALD.  Ah!  when  the  torment  and  the 
agony  and  the  anguish  — 

MRS.  ALVING.  Regina,  you  might  fetch  us  a 
small  bottle  of  lager. 

REGINA.  Very  well,  ma'am.     (Goes  out.) 

OSWALD  (stont-and-bitterly).     Lager! 

MRS.  ALVING.  I  cannot  deny  you  anything, 
my  boy.  You  must  live  here  always  now,  and 
forget  your  troubles.  I  cannot  have  my  boy 
worried.  Diddums,  then? 

R.EGINA  (brings  a  tray  with  bottle  and  two 
glasses,  which  she  sets  on  the  piano).  Pastor 
Manders's  boots  are  cleaned  now. 

MRS.  ALVING.  Then  you  need  not  wait. 
Take  them  to  him. 

(Regina  goes  out  into  the  conservatory,  leav- 
ing door  open  behind  her.) 

MANDERS  (outside  in  the  conservatory).  O 
Reginah  !  My  ownest ! 


214  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

(From  within  the  conservatory  comes  the  noise 
of  falling  plant-pots  and  at  the  same  moment  is 
heard  .•) 

REGINA  (sharply).  You  didn't  dodge  that 
one,  Pastor  Manders ! 

OSWALD  (busy  opening  the  bottle).  Now, 
then.  (  The  cork  pops,  lie  Jills  and  empties  his 
glass.}  You  won't  have  any,  mother? 

MRS.  ALVING.  None  for  me,  thank  you. 

(He  finishes  the  bottle  ;  Mrs.  Alving  watclics 
him  anxiously?) 

MANDERS  (enters  from  the  conservatory,  and 
seats  himself  on  the  hire  system,  removing  frag- 
ments of  plant-pot  from  his  hair  and  clothes'). 
Did  I,  or  did  I  not,  hear  the  sound  of  a  cork? 

OSWALD.  You  did;  but  I,  unfortunately, 
have  finished  the  bottle. 

MANDERS.  It  was  ungenerous  in  you,  Oswald. 
It  was  unlike  you.  It  was  unworthy  of  the 
memory  of  your  dead  father,  in  whose  honor 
yonder  noble  tool-shed  has  been  erected  (bowing 
to  Mrs.  Alving}  by  one  who  loved  him.  I 
stood  there  just  now,  and  as  I  looked  at  the 
patent  grass-cutter  which  it  shelters,  I  thought 


THE   GHOST  OF  "GHOSTS."  215 

how  exquisitely  appropriate  the  monument  was 
to  one  who  was  ever  thirsty — who  always 
wanted  a  little  mower. 

OSWALD  (aside).  Oh,  remove  that  man ! 

MRS.  ALVING  (aside).  Always  thirsty!  So 
is  Oswald.  Ghosts!  ghosts! 

MANDERS.  So  you  have  finished  the  bottle. 
No  matter.  It  is  only  the  spirit  of  rebellion 
that  craves  for  happiness  in  this  life. 

OSWALD  (despairingly).  Craves  for  happi- 
ness! What  can  you  know  about  it,  sir?  Have 
you  experienced  the  thawing  noughts — I  mean 
the  gnawing  thoughts — the  biting,  carking, 
lacerating,  torturing,  deadly  pangs  that  at  this 
moment  are  rending  my  very  inmost 

MRS.  ALVING  (clasping  her  hands  and  calling 
into  the  conservatory).  Regina !  Regina !  Bring 
a  soda-and-milk.  (Regina  enters  from  the  con- 
servatory and  goes  up  the  staircase  to  the  cows 
stable?)  My  son,  you  shall  know  the  joy  of  life. 
You  shall  feel  the  hot  blood  mantalining  to 
your  cheek. 

MANDERS  (pointing  to  the  window).  Look 
Look! 


216  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

OSWALD  (excitedly).  My  father's  tool-shed 
is  on  fire. 

(They  all  rush  wildly  out  and  for  a  few 
moments  the  stage  is  empty], 

[NOTE. — By  this  time  it  is  probable  that  the 
auditorium  will  be  empty  as  well ;  so  perhaps 
the  drama  might  be  considered  to  stop  here). 


A    THEME   WITH    VARIATIONS. 


A   THEME   WITH   VARIATIONS. 

THEME. 

RIDE  a  cock-horse  to  Banbury  Cross, 
To  see  a  fine  lady  ride  on  a  white  horse  ; 
With  rings  on  her  ringers,  and  bells  on  her  toes, 
She  shall  have  music  wherever  she  goes. 

VARIATION    I. — EDMUND   SPENSER. 

So  on  he  pricked,  and  loe,  he  gan  espy 
A  market  and  a  crosse  of  glist'ning. stone, 

And  eke  a  merrie  rablement  thereby, 
That  with  the  musik  of  the  strong  trombone. 
And  shaumes,  and  trompets  made  most  dyvilish  mone 

And  in  their  midst  he  saw  a  lady  sweet, 
That  rode  upon  a  milk  white  steed  alone, 

In  scarlet  robe  ycladd  and  wimple  meet, 
Bedight  with  rings  of  gold,  and  bells  about  her  feet. 

Whereat  the  knight  empassioned  was  so  deepe, 

His  heart  was  perst  with  very  agony. 
Certes  (said  he)  I  will  not  eat,  ne  sleepe, 

Till  I  have  seen  the  royall  maid  more  ny  ; 

Then  will  I  holde  her  in  fast  fealtie. 
Whom  then  a  carle  advised,  louting  low, 

That  little  neede  there  was  for  him  to  die, 


220  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

Sithens  in  yon  pavilion  was  the  show, 
Where  she  did  ride,  and  he  for  two-and-six  mote  go. 

VARIATION    II. — DR.   JONATHAN   SWIFT. 

Our  Chloe,  fresh  from  London  town, 

To  country  B y  comes  down, 

Furnished  with  half-a-thousand  graces 
Of  silks,  brocades,  and  hoops,  and  laces  ; 
And  tired  of  winning  coxcombs'  hearts 
On  simple  bumpkins  tries  her  arts. 
Behold  her  ambling  down  the  street 
On  her  white  palfrey,  sleek  and  neat. 
(Though  rumor  talks  of  gaming-tables, 

And  says  'twas  won  from  C 's  stables, 

And  that,  when  duns  demand  their  bill, 
She  satisfies  them  at  quadrille.) 
Her  fingers  are  encased  with  rings, 
Although  she  vows  she  hates  the  things. 
("Oh,  la  !    Why  ever  did  you  buy  it  ? 
Well — it's  a  pretty  gem — I'll  try  it.") 
The  fine  French  fashions  all  combine 
To  make  folks  stare,  and  Chloe  shine, 
From  ribbon'd  hat  with  monstrous  feather, 
To  bells  upon  her  under-leather. 

Now,  Chloe,  why,  do  you  suppose, 
You  wear  those  bells  about  your  toes  ? 
Is  it,  your  feet  with  bells  you  deck 
For  want  of  bows  about  your  neck  ? 


A     TIH-: ME    WITH    VARIATIONS.  221 

VARIATION  III. — SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
(From  "  The  Lady  of  the  Cake'") 

"  Who  is  this  maid  in  wild  array, 

And  riding  in  that  curious  way  ? 

What  mean  the  bells  that  jingle  free 

About  her  as  in  revelry  ?  " 

"  Tis  Madge  of  Banbury,"  Roderick  said, 

"  And  she's  a  trifle  off  her  head. 

'Twas  on  her  bridal  morn,  I  ween, 

When  she  to  Graeme  had  wedded  been, 

The  man  who  undertook  to  bake, 

Never  sent  home  the  wedding  cake  ! 

Since  then  she  wears  those  bells  and  rings, 

Since  then  she  rides — but,  hush,  she  sings." 

She  sung !     The  voice  in  other  days 

It  had  been  difficult  to  praise, 

And  now  it  every  sweetness  lacked, 

And  voice  and  singer  both  were  cracked. 

SONG. 

They  bid  me  ride  the  other  way, 

They  say  my  brain  is  warp'd  and  wrung, 

But,  oh  !  the  bridal  bells  are  gay, 
That  I  about  my  feet  have  strung  ! 

And  when  I  face  the  horse's  tail 

I  see  once  more  in  Banbury 's  vale 

My  Graeme's  white  plume  before  me  wave, 

So  thus  I'll  ride  until  the  ^rave. 


222  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

They  say  that  this  is  not  my  home, 

'Mid  Scotland's  moors  and  Scotland's  brakes; 
But,  oh  !  'tis  love  that  makes  me  roam 

Forever  in  the  land  of  cakes ! 
And  woe  betide  the  baker's  guile, 
Whose  blight  destroyed  the  maiden's  smile  ! 
O  woe  the  day,  and  woe  the  deed, 
And  woa — gee  woa — my  bonnie  steed  ! 


THE  POETS  AT  TEA. 


THE  POETS  AT  TEA. 

I.— MACAULAV,  WHO  MADE  IT. 

POUR,  varlet,  pour  the  water, 

The  water  steaming  hot ! 
A  spoonful  for  each  man  of  us, 

Another  for  the  pot ! 
We  shall  not  drink  from  amber, 

No  Capuan  slave  shall  mix 
For  us  the  snows  of  Athos 

With  port  at  thirty-six  ; 
Whiter  than  snow  the  crystals 

Grown  sweet  'neath  tropic  fires. 
More  rich  the  herb  of  China's  field, 
The  pasture-lands  more  fragrance  yield  ; 
Forever  let  Britannia  wield 

The  teapot  of  her  sires  ! 

II.— TENNYSON,  WHO  TOOK  IT  HOT. 

I  think  that  I  am  drawing  to  an  end  : 
For  on  a  sudden  came  a  gasp  for  breath, 
And  stretching  of  the  hands,  and  blinded  eyes, 
And  a  great  darkness  falling  on  my  soul. 
O  Hallelujah  !  .  .  .  kindly  pass  the  milk. 


226  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 


III.— SWINBURNE,  WHO  LET  IT  GET  COLD. 

As  the  sin  that  was  sweet  in  the  sinning 

Is  foul  in  the  ending  thereof, 
As  the  heat  of  the  summer's  beginning 

Is  past  in  the  winter  of  love  : 
O  purity,  painful  and  pleading ! 

0  coldness,  ineffably  gray  ! 

Oh  hear  us,  our  hand-maid  unheeding, 
And  take  it  away ! 

IV. — COWPER,  WHO  THOROUGHLY  ENJOYED  IT. 

The  cozy  fire  is  bright  and  gay, 
The  merry  kettle  boils  away 

And  hums  a  cheerful  song. 

1  sing  the  saucer  and  the  cup  ; 
Pray,  Mary,  fill  the  teapot  up, 

And  do  not  make  it  strong. 

V. — BROWNING,  WHO  TREATED  IT  ALLEGORICALLY. 

Tut !  Bah  !  We  take  as  another  case — 

Pass  the   pills   on   the    window-sill ;    notice    the 

capsule 
(A  sick  man's  fancy,  no  doubt,  but  I  place 

Reliance  on  trade-marks,  Sir)— so  perhaps  you'll 
Excuse  the  digression — this  cup  which  I  hold 

Light-poised — Bah,  it's  spilt  in   the   bed  ! — well, 

let's  on  go — 
Held  Bohea  and  sugar,  Sir ;  if  you  were  told 

The  sugar  was  salt,  would  the  Bohea  be  Congo  ? 


THE  POETS  AT   TEA.  227 

VI. — WORDSWORTH,   WHO   GAVE   IT    AWAY. 

"  Come  little  cottage  girl,  you  seem 

To  want  my  cup  of  tea  ; 
And  will  you  take  a  little  cream  ? 

Now  tell  the  truth  to  me." 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  grin, 

Her  cheek  was  soft  as  silk, 
And  she  replied,  "  Sir,  please  put  in 

A  little  drop  of  milk." 

"  Why,  what  put  milk  into  your  head  ? 

'Tis  cream  my  cows  supply  ;  " 
And  five  times  to  the  child  I  said, 

"Why,  pig-head,  tell  me,  why  ?  " 

"  You  call  me  pig-head,"  she  replied  ; 

"  My  proper  name  is  Ruth. 
I  called  that  milk  " — she  blushed  with  pride — 

"  You  bade  me  speak  the  truth." 

VII. — POE,   WHO   GOT   EXCITED   OVER   IT. 

Here's  a  mellow  cup  of  tea — golden  tea  ! 
What  a  world  of  rapturous   thought  its  fragrance 
brings  to  me ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  silver  cells 

How  it  wells  ! 

How  it  smells  ! 

Keeping  tune,  tune,  tune,  tune 
To  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  spoon. 


228  PL  A  Y  THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

And  the  kettle  on  the  fire 
Boils  its  spout  off  with  desire, 
With  a  desperate  desire 
And  a  crystalline  endeavor 
Now,  now  to  sit,  or  never, 
On  the  top  of  the  pale-faced  moon, 
But  he  always  came  home  to  tea,  tea,  tea,  tea,  tea, 
Tea  to  the  n— ith. 

VIII.— ROSSETTI,  WHO  TOOK   SIX   CUPS   OF   IT. 

The  lilies  lie  in  my  lady's  bower 

(O  weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost), 
They  faintly  droop  for  a  little  hour  ; 
My  lady's  head  droops  like  a  flower. 

She  took  the  porcelain  in  her  hand 
(O  weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost); 

She  poured  ;  I  drank  at  her  command  ; 

Drank  deep,  and  now — you  understand  ! 
(O  weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost). 

IX. — BURNS,  WHO   LIKED   IT  ADULTERATED. 

Weel,  gin  ye  speir,  I'm  no  inclined, 
Whusky  or  tay— to  state  my  mind 

For  ane  or  ither  ; 
For,  gin  I  tak  the  first,  I'm  fou, 
And  gin  the  next,  I'm  dull  as  you, 

Mix  a'  thegither. 


THE  POETS  AT   TEA.  229 

X.— WALT   WHITMAN,  WHO   DIDN'T   STAY   MORE  THAN 
A    MINUTE. 

One  cup  for  my  self-hood, 

Many   for  you.     Allans,  camerados,  we  will  drink 

together. 
O    hand-in-hand  !      That    teaspoon,    please,    when 

you've  done  with  it. 
What  butter-colored  hair  you've  got.     I  don't  want 

to  be  personal. 

All  right,  then,  you  needn't — you're  a  stale — cadaver. 
Eighteen-pence  if  the  bottles  are  returned, 
Allons,  from  all  bat-eyed  formules. 


HOME  PETS. 


I.— BOYS. 

READER,  do  you  keep  boys  ?  Are  you  inter- 
ested in  them  ?  I  trust  that  both  my  questions 
may  be  answered  in  the  affirmative.  They  cost 
more  to  keep  than  rabbits  or  canaries;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  are  often  more  intelligent. 
They  can  be  made  to  eat  out  of  the  hand, 
although  they  prefer  the  ordinary  knife  and 
fork  ;  they  can  be  taught  to  jump  through 
hoops,  to  pretend  to  be  dead — some  of  them 
actually  die — and  to  write  their  own  name  ; 
and  they  can  produce  the  sound  of  the  human 
voice  as  accurately  as  any  cockatoo  that  ever 
got  itself  advertised  in  a  high-class  weekly  re- 
view. They  are  more  affectionate  than  guinea- 
pigs,  but  not  so  affectionate  as  dogs.  They  are 
not  so  clean  as  cats,  but  the  method  of  washing 
adopted  by  the  two  animals  istotally  different. 
They  are  so  common  that  the  expense  ought 
not  to  prevent  any  family  from  securing  one. 
233 


234  PLA  YTHINGS  AXD  PARODIES. 

"  How  am  I  to  feed  it  ?  "  is  the  question 
which  any  fancier  naturally  asks  about  a  new 
pet.  You  can  feed  boys  on  just  the  same  sort 
of  food  that  you  yourself  would  eat.  You  must 
remember,  however,  that  they  also  crave  for 
intellectual  sustenance.  If  they  are  not  pro- 
vided with  it,  they  ought  to  pine  away.  It  is  as 
well  to  mention  this  because  it  is  a  peculiarity 
of  boys.  You  yourself — supposing  you  to  be  an 
average  person — feel  no  necessity  for  it.  You 
read  the  daily  papers,  novels,  and  occasionally 
the  time-tables.  That  is  enough  for  you.  But 
a  boy  ought  to  desire  more ;  his  natural  instincts 
would  make  him  devour  greedily  anything  that 
was  at  all  high-toned,  such  as  history,  meta- 
physics, poetry.  Unfortunately  some  boys 
will  rebel  against  their  natural  instincts. 

At  one  time  in  my  life  I  was  assistant  to  a 
boy-trainer.  We  had  boys  sent  there  to  be 
broken  in,  and  some  of  them  simply  would  not 
obey  their  natural  instincts,  but  seemed  to 
loathe  good  intellectual  diet.  I  have  known 
boys  who  seemed  to  really  want  to  starve  their 
souls,  although  I  do  not  remember  a  single 


SOYS.  235 

instance  of  one  who  cared  about  starving  his 
body.  For  a  short  time  every  day  we  used  to 
give  them  slices  of  English  poetry  to  digest  and 
get  by  heart.  "I  hate  that  rep.,"  one  of  them 
said  to  me  dejectedly,  "  and  they've  gone  and 
stuck  me  in  the  scrum,  and  put  Pilbury,  who 
can't  play  any  more  than  a  cow,  full-back  in  my 
place.  Rot,  I  call  it."  All  this  was  said  quite 
distinctly  ;  you  could  not  have  told  that  you 
were  not  listening  to  the  sounds  of  the  human 
voice.  There  are  only  a  few  words  in  the  sen- 
tence which  distinguish  it  from  our  own  ordinary 
articulate  speech.  I  have  quoted  it,  however, 
chiefly  to  show  that  a  boy  cannot  be  depended 
upon  to  follow  his  own  natural  instincts  in  the 
matter  of  poetry  ;  in  many  cases,  unless  he  is 
made  to  take  it,  he  will  deny  himself.  I  have 
thrown  a  boy  a  great  piece  of  "  Sordello,"  and 
seen  him  sniff  at  it,  and  then  go  away  and 
browse  on  Harrison  Ainsworth,  which  of  course 
was  not  good  for  him.  We  may  notice,  too, 
that  in  this  boy's  remarks  there  was  something 
suspiciously  like  logical  coherence.  I  have,  in 
fact,  noticed  less  logical  coherence  in  the  speech 


236  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

of  a  live  member  of  Parliament — there  is  a  very 
fair  collection  of  these,  by  the  way,  somewhere 
at  Westminster.  But  then  the  boy  was  saying 
all  he  meant,  and  the  member  of  Parliament 
was  repeating  as  much  as  he  could  recollect. 

The  main  difference  between  dogs  and  boys 
is  this  :  the  tamer  a  dog  is,  the  more  tricks  he 
will  do,  but  in  the  boy's  case  the  number  of 
tricks  varies  inversely  as  the  tameness.  In  fact, 
it  is  not  necessary  to  teach  a  boy  tricks  at  all  ; 
give  him  high  spirits,  a  pewter  squirt,  and  a 
window  commanding  a  thoroughfare,  and  nature 
will  do  the  rest.  There  is  another  distinction 
between  these  two  animals.  Dogs  generally 
have  the  distemper  when  they  are  young  ;  with 
boys  a  somewhat  analogous  complaint  only 
occurs  in  very  advanced  boyhood.  It  is  called 
sentimentalism.  It  is  generally  only  a  passing 
complaint,  and  not  at  all  dangerous.  The  symp- 
toms are  easily  discoverable.  The  boy  mopes, 
and  may  be  heard  to  remark  that  Ouida's 
"  Strathmore  "  is  the  finest  work  in  the  English 
language.  He  hangs  up  a  photograph  in  his 
kennel,  and  begins  to  be  dissatisfied  with  his 


BOYS.  237 

neckties.  How  are  you  to  cure  him?  You  can, 
if  you  like,  put  a  little  sulphur — any  chemist 
will  supply  it — in  the  boy's  drinking-water,  as 
in  the  case  of  sick  canaries  ;  but  if  you  do,  it  is 
probable  that  the  boy  will  take  it  out  of  you 
in  some  other  way.  It  is  better  to  apply  the 
"  School  Magazine  "  at  once  ;  several  ounces  of 
distressing  verse  have  been  extracted  in  this  way 
from  bad  cases.  Perhaps  the  best  remedy  is  to 
place  the  patient  in  the  society  of  boys  who 
have  not  got  the  complaint.  The  healthy  boys 
will  probably  kick  the  sufferer,  and  this  will  do 
him  good. 

This  article  might  well  conclude  with  several 
instances  of  the  marvelous  instinct  displayed 
by  boys.  But  the  space  at  my  disposal  is 
limited  ;  I  can  assure  you,  however,  that  not 
only  are  boys,  as  I  have  said,  often  more  intel- 
ligent than  rabbits  and  canaries,  but  stories  of 
their  intelligence  and  imitative  power  would  be 
comparatively  fresh.  The  journalistic  imagina- 
tion has  played  freely  round  the  guinea-pig  and 
the  cockatoo,  but  has  left  the  boy  untouched. 
You  have  only  to  acquire  a  boy,  and  get  rid  of 


238  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

your  conscience  ;  then  you  can  make  the  stones 
for  yourself.  I  may  add  that  quite  the  best 
people  in  London  'now  have  boys  in  their 
houses ;  a  couple  of  well-bred  Eton-marked 
nephews  look  very  well  in  a  drawing  room. 
But  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  make  them 
stop  here. 


II.— GIRLS. 

GlRLS  are  the  young  of  women.  Nearly  all 
the  trouble  which  fanciers  have  with  these  pets 
comes  from  a  failure  to  recognize  this  fact.  It 
is  one  of  those  scientific  truths  which  we  simply 
have  to  face  ;  it  has  been  proved  by  observation 
that  girls  ultimately  become  women,  and  it  is 
useless  to  blink  the  fact.  We  must  expect, 
however  much  we  may  lament  it,  to  find  several 
points  of  similarity  between  girls  and  women. 
Some  women,  for  instance,  play  the  piano. 
Nearly  all  girls  play  with  the  piano.  A  fancier 
should  expect  this,  and  not  be  frightened  at  it. 
There  is  no  need  to  feel  nervous  when  one  sees 
a  girl  shedding  her  scales  ;  some  trainers  even 
insist  that  they  should  be  encouraged  to  do  it, 
just  as  they  should  be  encouraged  to  keep  them- 
selves clean.  Shortly  afterward  they  may  be 
found  turning  the  instrument  into  a  Sydney- 
Smithy  ;  if  you  open  the  top  of  the  piano  while 
239 


240  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

they  are  hammering  a  hard  piece,  you  may  see 
sparks  fly  from  the  wires.  Or  you  may  not. 
But  at  any  rate  it  is  interesting  to  watch  a  thin 
little  melody  working  its  way  home  through  a 
whirlpool  of  arpeggios.  By  all  means  give  a  girl 
a  piano  ;  in  aggravated  cases  the  pedals  can  be 
amputated.  It  is  not  necessary  to  give  the  piano 
chloroform  when  this  operation  is  performed  ; 
besides,  all  the  chloroform  will  be  wanted  in  the 
rooms  underneath  the  schoolroom  during  prac- 
tice hours.  On  one  point  be  very  careful ;  if 
a  girl  of  her  own  accord  takes  to  playing  the 
common  waltz,  there  is  of  course  something 
wrong.  But  be  sure  you  find  out  what  the 
cause  of  the  evil  is  before  you  give  up  hope. 
A  careless  fancier  might  shoot  the  girl  at  once, 
to  put  her  out  of  her  misery  ;  now,  with  the 
kindest  intentions  in  the  world,  he  might  still 
be  making  a  mistake.  Do  not  kill  the  girl  un- 
til you  are  quite  sure  that  she  is  incurable. 
Sometimes  a  girl  plays  waltzes  because  they 
are  easier  than  other  music.  Get  another  girl 
to  tell  her  this,  and  she  will  never  play  them 
again.  She  may  say  bitter  things  about  the 


GIRLS.  241 

other  girl's  hat,  but  this  cannot  be  helped. 
There  are  of  course  many  other  points  in  which 
a  distinct  likeness  between  girls  and  women 
can  be  traced. 

What  do  girls  eat  ?  This  is  a  question  which 
very  few  can  answer.  They  can  be  made  to 
eat  much  the  same  food  as  boys.  But  they 
have  their  preferences.  Ices  and  meringues 
make  a  good  everyday  diet.  But  I  have  in 
my  possession  a  letter  from  a  girl  at  a  girl- 
trainer's  giving  a  list  of  what  was  actually  eaten 
at  a  dormitory  supper.  It  is  an  important 
and  valuable  document,  because  it  shows 
what  unassisted  nature  prompts  a  girl  to  eat. 
It  is  not  given  in  facsimile,  because  the  print- 
ing of  facsimile  letters  in  the  public  press  has 
been  sometimes  found  to  lead  to  unpleasant- 
ness. But  these  are  the  items  of  the  repast: 

1.  Toast  and  jam.     (The  toast  was  made  at  the  gas,  pen- 
holders being  used  in  the  place  of  toasting-forks  ;  the 
making  of  it  was  more  popular  than  the  eating  of  it.) 

2.  Toasted  gelatines.      (These    were  liked,  but  it  was 
objected  that  they  took  a  very  long  time  to  eat,  and  the 
gas  was  only  available  for  half  an  hour,  so  only  a  few 
were  cooked.) 


242  PLAYTHINSS  AND  PARODIES. 

3.  Chocolate  creams.     (The  white  cream  is  very  good, 
but  epicures  prefer  those  with  the  pink  inward  parts — 
a  rare  variety,  and  believed  to  be  more  expensive.) 

4.  Plum  cake  and  jam.     (At  the  commencement  of  the 
term   plum  cake   is   always  eaten  with  rjam ;  no  girl 
with  self-respect  in  at  all  a  rich  dormitory  could  offer 
another  girl  unjammed  cake.) 

5.  Cheese-cakes. 

6.  Biscuits.     (In  taking  from  the  tin,  it  is  usual  to  select 
those  which  have  a  plaster  of  paris  ornament,  unless 
this   variety    is   obviously    scarce,   when,  of    course, 
politesse  obliged) 

The  beverages  were  cocoa  (which  was  a  little 
lumpy,  because  there  was  not  sufficient  time  to 
boil  the  water  over  the  gas  and  it  refused  to 
boil  over  one  surreptitious  candle),  plain  sher- 
bet, pink  sherbet,  and  citrate  of  magnesia  with 
sugar.  The  citrate  of  magnesia  was  contributed 
by  a  girl  who  was  liable  to  headaches,  and  had 
brought  it  from  home.  Of  course  the  items  of 
the  repast  may  vary  according  to  the  state  of 
plenty  which  prevails  in  the  dormitory.  A 
story  is  told  of  one  girl  who  during  a  period  of 
great  financial  depression  attempted  to  eat 
cherry  tooth-paste  on  bread.  In  feeding  girls, 
a  good  general  rule  to  remember  is  this :  the 


GIRLS.  243 

taste  and  wholesomeness  of  the  food  do  not 
matter  as  long  as  the  color  is  pink. 

When  a  large  number  of  girls  are  placed 
together,  one  will  generally  see  friendships 
formed.  The  two  friends  always  share  each 
other's  secrets,  and  never  tell  them  to  a  single 
soul  more  than  they  can  help.  In  violent  cases 
they  invent  pet  names  for  each  other,  and  write 
little  notes  to  say  what  could  be  said  with 
greater  convenience  by  word  of  mouth.  When 
the  friendship  is  very  romantic  indeed,  these 
little  notes  are  generally  written  in  French  ;  the 
French  is  conditioned  to  some  extent  by  the 
age  of  the  girl  and  her  position  in  the  training 
establishment,  but  it  is  generally  understood 
that  English  words  may  be  used  where  the 
French  is  not  known.  For  instance  :  "  Je  suis 
kept  in  pour  jettant  un  tennis-ball  a  la  fenetre. 
Restez  pour  moi  apres  dans  le  day-room.  J'ai 
quelque  chose  vous  dire  tres  privatement."  To 
put  any  accents  on  these  elegant  little  compo- 
sitions would  be  to  reduce  them  at  once  to  the 
level  of  an  exercise.  Two  girl  friends  gener- 
ally pet  one  another,  and  sometimes  do  one 


244  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

another's  hair.  In  this  respect  they  differ 
slightly  from  boy  friends.  Enmity  also  pro- 
duces correspondence.  I  have  not  the  author's 
permission  to  quote  the  following  instances  : 

1.  DEAR  JANE  :  After  what  you  said  to  Kitty  Syce  about 

my  boa  and  she  told  me  so  herself  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  expect  me  ever  to  speak  to  you  again  and  it's 
wicked  to  tell  such  untruths  as  you  did  because  you 
must  have  known. — Ever  yours,  MILLY. 

2.  DEAR  MILLY  :  I  didn't  say  anything  of  the  sort  and 

I'm  sure  I  don't  want  you  to  speak  to  me  I  was  just 
going  to  write  and  tell  you  I  wouldn't  speak  to  you 
myself  when  I  got  your  letter  and  you  needn't  write 
any  more  because  I  won't  read  them. — Yours  very 
affectionately,  JANE.  P.  S. — Kitty  is  a  liar. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  correspondence 
ends  here.  There  are  thirty-two  more  letters. 
Of  course,  at  the  close  of  these,  Milly  and  Jane 
form  an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance  against 
Kitty  Syce,  who  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
at  all  a  nice  girl.  The  letters  of  enmity,  being 
generally  written  in  some  haste  and  heat,  are 
not  punctuated.  The  fancier,  then,  should  be 
always  on  the  lookout  for  any  marked  signs  of 
enmity  or  amity  in  his  pets,  and  whenever  these 
occur,  he  should  put  pens,  ink,  and  paper  within 


GIRLS.  245 

easy  reach.  The  great  passions  require  them. 
In  the  case  of  sentimental  friendships  always 
provide  fancy  note  paper. 

Let  me  conclude  with  a  short  story  of  the 
wonderful  instinct  of  girls.  It  is  true  in  every 
particular.  A  friend  of  mine  was  walking  over 
Waterloo  Bridge  with  a  girl.  She  was  just  the 
ordinary  variety  of  girl,  with  no  special  mark- 
ings, and  not  particularly  valuable.  Suddenly 
he  missed  her.  He  whistled  once  or  twice,  and 
then  shrugged -his  shoulders  and  walked  on, 
never  expecting,  of  course,  to  see  her  again.  In 
fact,  he  said  at  the  time  that  he  thought  she 
must  have  fallen  into  the  river  or  got  run  over. 
However,  three  weeks  after  this  incident,  busi- 
ness had  taken  him  to  Edinburgh,  and  he  was 
sitting  in  his  own  room  at  his  hotel  when  he 
heard,  as  he  thought,  something  scratching  at 
the  door  outside.  He  opened  the  door  quickly, 
looked  out,  and  found  he  was  mistaken.  I  may 
mention  that  the  girl  had  never  been  in  Edin- 
burgh before  in  her  life,  was  not  in  Edinburgh 
then,  and  never  went  to  Edinburgh  afterward. 
She  has  now  turned  into  a  woman,  and  has  not 


246  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

since  this  event  given  any  sign  of  remarkable 
intelligence. 

I  challenge  investigation  into  the  facts  of 
this  story.  If  it  can  be  proved  to  be  untrue,  I 
promise  that  anyone  may  pay  me  the  sum  of 
£10,000.  Can  it  be  wondered  that  pets  with 
so  marvelous  an  instinct  are  immensely  popu- 
lar? For  that  reason  I  must  repeat  my  warn- 
ing— girls  are  the  young  of  woman.  The 
gentlest  schoolgirl  will  grow  up ;  then  she 
may  lose  her  temper  and  marry  you. 


III.— RECITERS. 

"THERE  she  spouts!" 

Such  was  the  exclamation  of  an  old  sea 
captain,  recently  returned  from  a  whaling  ex- 
pedition, when  I  took  him  into  the  yard  where 
.1  keep  my  reciters.  His  attention  had  been 
attracted  by  a  large  female,  who  had  drawn 
herself  up  to  her  full  height  and  was  Eugene- 
Araming  shrilly.  It  was  an  animated  scene.  In 
one  corner  there  were  two  very  young  male 
reciters.  They  really  looked  quite  pretty,  with 
broad  white  collars  round  their  throats,  bobbing 
and  fussing  about,  and  knocking  the  air  at  in- 
tervals with  their  forepaws.  Others  were  busy 
with  open  books,  hitting  their  foreheads  and 
straining  their  poor  memories.  Others  were 
hurrying  up  and  down  the  platform  steps.  I, 
like  all  humane  fanciers,  have  provided  my 
reciters  with  a  little  platform  ;  and,  indeed,  few 
things  give  me  more  pleasure  than  to  see  a 


248  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

happy,  well-fed   reciter  bow  and  retire.     The 

good-natured  old  sea  captain  drew  a  handful  of 

fresh,  crisp  press  notices  from  his  pocket,  and 

flung   them  down  in   the    inclosure.     All    the 

reciters  rushed  upon  them  at  once  ;  they  like  a 

good  press  notice  with  a  little  paste  to  fix  it. 

"  But  why,"  someone  may  ask,  "  do  you  keep 

your  reciters  out  of  doors  ?  "     Well,  I  have  tried 

both  plans.    I  once  owned  a  male  reciter,  twenty 

years  of  age,  slightly  built,  with  fair  fluffy  hair, 

a  weak  chin,  a  nervous  manner,  a  green  necktie, 

and  the  mildest  eye  I  ever  saw  in  man  or  beast. 

You  would  have  thought,  as  I  did,  that  it  was 

perfectly  safe  to  keep  him  in  the  house  ;  and  as 

a  rule  he  was  most  meek  and  quiet.     But  one 

night,  when  he  was  on  the  hearthrug  in  front  of 

the  fire,  a  friend  of  mine  happened  to  say  that 

he  thought  Mr.  Irving  was  not  so  bad  an  actor 

as  some  amateur  whose  name  I  have  forgotten. 

The  young  reciter  snapped  at  him  at  once,  and 

then  began  to  strut  up  and  down  the  hearthrug, 

shaking  his  silly  head.     "  Lie  down,  Arthur  ! 

Lie  down,  sir  !  "  I  said  firmly.     I  had  called  him 

Arthur  after  a  pet  lamb  which  belonged  to  my 


RECITERS.  249 


daughter.  But  he  had  completely  lost  control 
over  himself,  and  began  to  recite  most  furiously. 
He  Death-of-Absalomed  all  round  the  room,  and 
then  went  back  to  the  hearthrug,  and  Charge- 
of-the-Light-Brigaded  two  valuable  vases  off  the 
mantelpiece.  I  kicked  him  out,  and  resumed 
my  conversation.  But  this  was  only  the  begin- 
ning of  the  trouble.  I  used  to  let  Arthur  sleep 
in  a  disused  bedroom  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
and  when  I  turned  him  out  for  breaking  the 
vases  he  went  up  to  his  room.  He  caught  the 
butler  on  the  staircase,  and  began  The  Raven  at 
him,  frightening  the  poor  man  terribly.  Finally 
he  went  deliberately  through  a  humorous  pas- 
sage and  Shylocked  the  door  after  him.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  have  the  furniture  broken,  but  I 
will  not  have  my  servants  ill-treated.  So,  on 
the  following  morning,  I  had  Arthur  sent  out 
into  the  yard.  We  found,  on  examining  his 
room,  that  the  lid  of  the  soap-dish  was  frac- 
tured ;  and  the  scientific  expert  who  attended 
had  little  doubt  that  the  fracture  must  have 
been  caused  by  some  heavy  instrument,  prob- 
ably didactic  poetry.  In  the  open  air  Arthur 


250  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

does  no  harm;  he  goes  Lays-of-Ancient-Roming 
about  the  yard,  and  is  fairly  well  satisfied  with 
himself.  Of  course,  this  is  only  one  experience. 
I  have  had  reciters  who  were  perfectly  tame  and 
would  never  recite  at  all  unless  they  were  asked 
twice.  But  they  always  got  unhappy,  unless 
they  were  asked  twice.  If  you  allow  them  in 
the  house,  they  may  be  muzzled  ;  an  ordinary 
dog-muzzle  requires  very  little  alteration  to 
make  it  fit  a  reciter.  The  practice  of  cutting 
out  their  tongues  is  rather  cruel,  although,  if  it 
is  carefully  done  by  a  good  veterinary  surgeon, 
it  is  not  nearly  so  cruel  as  some  sentimentalists 
would  have  us  believe.  But  neither  the  muzzle 
nor  the  removal  of  the  animal's  tongue  is  en- 
tirely satisfactory.  If  the  reciter  is  naturally 
vicious,  he  will  not  be  cured  by  such  methods  ; 
he  will  resort  to  dumb  show,  and  attempt  to 
prove  to  us  how  very  much  can  be  done  by 
facial  expression  alone.  In  fact,  although  re- 
citers are  frequently  allowed  to  run  about  the 
drawing  room  by  some  people,  and  may  fairly 
claim  a  place  among  our  home  pets,  I  am  in 
favor  of  keeping  them  outside  the  Jionse  unless 


RECITERS.  251 


they  are  specially  trained  not  to  recite.  Give 
them  plenty  of  green  poetry,  an  occasional  press 
notice,  and  let  them  recite  to  one  another. 

I  have  often  been  asked,  What  is  the  best 
kind  of  reciter  to  get  ?  Well,  a  great  deal  de- 
pends on  your  pocket.  Reciters  with  very  bad 
memories  fetch  the  highest  prices.  Good  female 
reciters  are  common  enough  ;  dealers  will  give 
you  about  five  of  them  for  a  shilling,  as  a  rule. 
But  their  tempers  are  uncertain,  and,  if  you  have 
more  than  one  in  the  yard,  they  must  be  kept  in 
separate  hutches,  or  they  will  fight.  The  two- 
poem  juvenile  is  a  pretty  variety  ;  if  he  is  care- 
fully trained  he  will  be  entirely  free  from  all  the 
charm  of  childhood.  But  I  have  no  sympathy 
with  those  who  keep  really  dangerous  pets;  a 
full-grown  male  tragic-reciter  is  very  dangerous. 
Some  fanciers  pet  them,  out  of  sheer  bravado  ; 
but  you  would  do  better  to  avoid  them,  or  keep 
them  on  the  chain.  Their  soliloquy  ispoisonous 
and  incurable. 

Lastly,  many  people  who  come  to  see  my  pets 
notice  two  reciters  in  the  yard  who  never  recite 
at  all.  I  have  been  entreated  to  say  how  I 


252  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

managed  to  train  them  to  this  perfection.  Well, 
I  have  no  infallible  method,  but  I  will  give  you 
a  hint.  Much  may  be  done  by  cruelty.  If  you 
give  the  least  encouragement,  a  reciter  will 
always  go  on  reciting.  A  thoughtless  piece  of 
kindness  will  undo  all  the  good  which  has  been 
accomplished  by  low  diet  and  candid  friends. 
In  most  cases  I  do  not  even  aim  at  this  state  of 
perfection.  I  let  the  animals  recite,  and  even 
give  them  a  few  press  notices.  They  are  happier, 
of  course,  when  they  are  left  thus,  in  the  natural 
state.  But  still,  I  am  proud  of  my  two  highly 
trained  reciters.  Sometimes  I  show  them  to  a 
friend,  and  the  friend  by  way  of  a  joke  says 
"Shelley!"  They  drop  their  ears  and  slink- 
away  at  once.  Yesterday  I  threw  one  of  them 
a  little  bit  of  Lord  Tennyson,  to  see  what  he 
would  do  with  it.  For  a  long  time  he  would  not 
look  at  it ;  then  he  walked  round  it  very  gingerly. 
giving  furtive  glances,  first  at  the  poetry,  and 
then  at  me.  His  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  say- 
ing something  to  himself;  he  hurriedly  drew  a 
little  looking-glass  from  his  pocket,  and  was  just 
going  to  assume  a  facial  expression,  when  I  gave 


RECITERS.  253 


a  slight  significant  cough.  In  a  moment  he  had 
put  the  looking-glass  back,  and  scampered  off 
out  of  the  reach  of  temptation.  I  confess  that  I 
had  a  feeling  of  triumph,  and  I  am  going  to  try 
keeping  these  two  pets  in  the  house  next  week. 


IV.— FANCY   PENS. 

I  MUST  commence  by  owning  that  I  do  not 
keep  any  fancy  pens  now.  But  I  used  to  keep 
them  once,  and  made  a  study  of  them,  and  only 
gave  them  up  because  I  had  some  writing  to  do. 
So  I  think  that  I  am  qualified  to  speak  about 
them.  At  present  I  own  twelve  common  pen- 
holders with  steel  nibs.  I  bought  them  fixed 
to  an  ornamental  card,  on  which  they  were  ac- 
companied by  a  piece  of  india  rubber,  an  inch 
measure,  and  a  glass  flower-holder  for  the 
button-hole.  The  card  was  entitled  "  The 
Youth's  Useful  Companion,"  and  the  whole 
thing  cost  sixpence.  I  am  willing  to  sell  the 
glass  flower-holder;  I  never  could  quite  under- 
stand how  it  came  to  be  included  on  the  card. 
But  the  common  penholders  are  affectionate, 
hard-working  little  things,  and  I  would  not 
part  with  them  on  any  account. 

The  first  fancy  pen  I  ever  had  was  given  me 
254 


FANCY  PENS. 


when  I  was  very  young  indeed,  young  enough  to 
have  a  nursemaid  to  guard  me  from  danger  and 
brush  my  hair.  It  was  my  birthday,  and  the 
nursemaid  told  me  that  Uncle  William  had  sent 
me  a  new  real  gold  pen.  I  had  wanted  him  to 
give  me  a  canoe,  in  order  that  I  might  explore 
the  Holy  Land,  and  I  believe  I  had  hinted  as 
much  to  him,  consequently  I  did  not  care  much 
about  the  gold  pen,  and  I  fell  in  with  my  nurse- 
maid's suggestion  that  she  should  tend  and 
cherish  it  for  me  until  I  became  old  enough  to 
use  so  valuable  an  instrument  without  exciting 
public  comment.  I  believe  she  was  a  larcenous 
nursemaid.  At  any  rate  she  was  sent  away  soon 
afterward,  and  took  the  real  gold  pen  with  her, 
and  I  never  saw  it  again.  A  year  or  two  after- 
ward I  got  a  cornelian  pen-holder.  It  was  a 
fast  goer,  with  beautiful  free  action,  but  snapped 
in  two  when  I  was  trying  to  draw  a  pig  without 
taking  my  pen  off  the  paper.  It  was  sent  to  the 
knacker's  and  became  sleeve-links  and  a  brooch. 
It  was  not  till  many  years  afterward  that  I 
bought  my  first  stylomaniac  pen,  and  tried  to 
break  it  in. 


256  PLA  YTHINGS  AND   PARODIES. 

Stylomaniac  pens  have  a  delicate  constitu- 
tion and  an  uncertain  temper.  They  are  very 
dainty  feeders.  I  gave  my  stylomaniac  some 
ordinary  ink  one  day.  It  was  a  very  fair  dinner 
ink  at  about  t\velvepence  the  dozen,  but  of 
course  had  no  particular  body  or  boquet.  The 
stylomaniac  turned  up  its  retroiisst  little  iridium 
point,  and  refused  to  touch  it.  I  tried  to  force 
its  black  mouth  open,  and  then  the  brute  bit  me. 
Out  of  regard  for  my  personal  safety  I  did  not 
insist  any  further.  At  last  I  procured  a  mag- 
nificent ink,  grown  on  the  Rhine,  I  believe.  It 
had  a  curious  fragrance,  and  had  been  matured 
in  sherry  casks  ;  or  else  the  sherry  which  I  was 
buying  at  the  time  had  been  matured  in  ink-pots 
— I  forget  which,  but  both  are  probable.  As 
soon  as  I  opened  the  bottle,  my  stylomaniac 
rolled  slowly  across  the  table,  smelled  the  cork, 
and  then  looked  at  me  lovingly.  There  was  no 
trouble  about  feeding  it  this  time.  But  it  was  a 
heady  ink — deceptive,  like  Sauterne — and  the 
animal  had  no  sooner  drunk  it  than  it  went  fast 
asleep.  I  tried  to  make  it  write,  but  it  would 
not,  although  I  shook  it  hard,  and  did  all  I  could 


FANCY  PENS.  257 


to  rouse  it.  Three  days  afterward  it  was  still 
asleep,  but  after  I  had  given  it  a  little  strong 
coffee  it  recovered  itself  sufficiently  to  write 
"Dear  Sir,"  and  make  three  blots.  As  it  would 
do  no  more,  I  took  it  to  the  man  who  sold  it  me, 
and  who  guaranteed  it  to  be  sound,  free  from 
vice,  and  quiet  to  write  and  draw.  He  looked 
at  it  carefully  and,  I  think,  took  its  tempera- 
ture. He  then  said,  rather  coldly: 

"  You  have  been  using  this  pen  to  rake  out 
pipes." 

"  Of  course,"  I  replied. 

He  then  got  most  unreasonably  angry.  For 
my  part,  I  always  use  pens  for  this  purpose  when 
they  are  not  being  used  for  writing.  A  change 
of  work  is  as  good  as  recreation  ;  every  doctor 
knows  this.  An  ordinary  steel  nib  never  minds 
being  used  to  clean  out  a  pipe-bowl,  and  writes 
all  the  better  for  it  afterward.  However,  it  ap- 
peared that  I  had  made  a  very  serious  mistake. 
"Your  stylomaniac,"  the  man  said,  "  may  per- 
haps never  write  anymore.  Take  it  home  and 
clean  it  thoroughly." 

It  could  not  very  well  have  written  any  less, 


258  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

but  I  was  too  humble  to  say  so.  You  cannot 
even  wash  a  stylomaniac  pen  as  you  would  wash 
anything  else.  I  was  told  to  use  warm  water 
with  a  little  vinegar  in  it.  I  remember  this 
distinctly  now,  but  I  had  forgotten  it  that  day 
when  I  got  home.  I  knew  that  it  was  one  of  the 
things  in  the  cruet-stand  that  I  had  to  put  in 
the  warm  water,  but  I  had  forgotten  which  thing 
it  was.  I  argued  to  myself  that  it  would  prob- 
ably be  mustard,  because,  when  I  had  a  cold, 
the  doctor  papered  me  with  mustard-leaves  until 
I  felt  like  a  hoarding.  It  was  careless  of  me  to 
forget.  The  mustard  gave  it  paralysis  of  the 
iridium  point,  and  in  sheer  disgust  I  put  the 
brute  in  a  tray  with  some  other  penholders  that 
were  past  their  work.  Three  weeks  afterward  I 
picked  it  up  by  accident.  It  had  not  a  drop  of 
ink  in  it.  I  just  tried  it  on  the  paper,  and  I 
found  that  it  wrote  freely.  It  did  the  whole  of 
a  letter  to  the  Guardian  about  a  dog  of  mine 
which  never  barked  during  the  hours  of  Divine 
service.  I  do  not  know  what  made  it  write, 
unless  it  was  hypnotism.  It  has  never  written 
since,  and  a  few  months  ago  I  determined  to  get 


FANCY  PENS.  259 


rid  of  it  ;  so  I  lent  it  to  a  friend,  and  made  him 
promise  to  bring  it  back  next  day. 

Of  course  there  are  many  varieties  of  fancy 
pens,  of  which  I  have  no  space  to  speak  at 
length.  One  of  them  requires  to  be  dipped  in 
turpentine  instead  of  ordinary  ink  ;  which  is 
very  convenient,  because  you  cannot  always 
get  ordinary  ink.  Another  will  write  one  word 
with  only  five  thousand  dips.  If  only  our 
great-grandfathers  could  come  back  again,  and 
see  ho\v  far  civilization  has  progressed,  and 
what  triumphs  the  inventive  faculty  of  man 
has  achieved,  how  thankful  they  would  be  that 
they  died  when  they  did  !  It  is  curious  that 
no  fancier  has  yet  bred  a  pen  which  will  al- 
ways spell  sieze  and  ceiling  correctly.  .  I  am 
quite  a  cultivated  writer  myself,  but  it  is  only 
during  the  last  few  weeks  that  I  have  felt  cer- 
tain about  those  two  words. 

I  have  been  asked  to  say  something  on  the 
subject  of  cleanliness.  Some  people  wipe  pens 
on  the  inside  of  their  coats.  Some  wipe  them 
with  the  hair  of  their  heads.  The  latter  method 
seems  to  me  an  excess  of  devotion  ;  and,  by  an 


260  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

ironical  fatality,  is  generally  adopted  by  those 
who  wash  less  frequently.  Others  use  shot  or 
brushes,  and  a  few  prefer  a  corner  of  the  blot- 
ting paper.  But  why  not  go  to  the  root  of  the 
matter  at  once  ?  All  these  methods  alleviate, 
but  they  do  not  cure.  If  you  never  used  your 
pens  they  would  never  get  dirty.  It  is  the  filthy 
habit  of  dipping  them  in  ink  which  causes  all 
the  trouble,  but  I  do  not  think  anyone,  except 
myself,  has  yet  had  the  courage  to  point  this 
out.  That  is  the  chief  beauty  of  fancy  pens — 
you  never  make  them  dirty  by  writing  with 
them.  They  sometimes  acquire  a  pleasant 
aroma  from  being  used  as  tobacco-stoppers, 
but  they  never  get  contaminated  by  ink. 


V.— PERSONAL  FRIENDS. 

A  SMALL  child,  who  used  to  patronize  me  a 
good  deal,  once  allowed  me  the  privilege  of  see- 
ing some  of  his  most  valued  treasures.  Among 
these  were  a  little  green  frog  who  lived  a  motion- 
less life  in  a  very  large  jam-pot,  with  a  hand- 
somely bound  copy  of  the  "  Christian  Year  "over 
the  top  of  it.  "  Why  do  you  keep  it  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Because,"  the  child  replied  thoughtfully,  "  he 
can  go  all  the  winter,  and  never  eat  anything 
but  one  blue  fly  what  I  catches  for  him.  You 
couldn't."  The  child,  with  the  admirable  critical 
faculty  that  all  children  possess,  referred  at  once 
to  the  frog's  one  distinctive  quality.  Pigs  are 
profitable,  fowls  are  useful,  clogs  are  a  stimulus 
to  the  imagination  ;  but  to  keep  pets  which  are 
of  no  use  whatever,  simply  for  the  sake  of  their 
distinctive  quality,  is  evidence  of  a  critical  and 
artistic  temperament.  Personal  friends — so 
called  from  their  habit  of  making  personal  re- 
marks— are  not  so  profitable  as  pigs,  and  have 
361 


262  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES 

not,  as  a  class,  so  much  distinctive  quality  as 
may  be  discovered  in  a  small  green  frog  ;  but 
they  do  differ  in  a  marked  manner  from  mere 
acquaintances,  and  the  pleasure  of  keeping 
them  gains  an  additional  zest  from  the  fact 
that  they  are  very  dangerous. 

I  know  a  large  wild  bore  who  is  always 
bearing  down  upon  me  with  flashing  tusks  and 
some  fat  commonplace  in  his  mouth.  He  tosses 
this  down  before  me  as  if  it  were  something 
important  and  new.  The  other  day  he  eyed 
me  in  Piccadilly,  threw  up  his  head,  trumpeted, 
and  galloped  after  me.  He  caught  me  in  the 
Strand,  and  said  a  variety  of  things,  but  the 
thing  which  he  particularly  wanted  to  say  to 
me  was  this  :  "  I  have  many  acquaintances,  but 
very  few  personal  friends."  He  said  it  with 
his  finest  air.  He  seemed  to  think  it  almost 
significant  enough  to  disorganize  the  traffic  ; 
at  any  rate,  he  looked  proudly  around  at  the  cab 
horses,  as  if  he  wanted  to  see  how  they  were 
taking  it.  I  have  heard  many  men  say  the 
same  thing.  All  seem  to  congratulate  them- 
selves on  having  very  few  personal  friends. 


PERSONAL   FRIENDS.  263 

This  can  be  easily  understood.  Intimate, 
abiding  friendship  is  a  very  beautiful,  consola- 
tory, holy  thing,  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  avoid  ; 
and,  owing  to  some  ironical  natural  law,  which 
science  has  not  yet  explained,  one  is  frequently 
most  intimate  with  the  people  one  hates  most. 
Nobody  can  make  you  keep  dogs  ;  and  if  you  do 
keep  them,  you  can  decide  what  sort  of  dogs 
you  will  have  ;  but  personal  friendships  are  the 
result  of  chance  rather  than  choice.  I  do  not 
think,  however,  that  fanciers  would  have  nearly 
so  much  trouble  about  personal  friends  if  they 
really  understood  how  to  keep  them.  They 
disregard  the  simplest  rules  in  the  management 
of  their  pets,  and  then  are  surprised  that  they 
turn  vicious.  Now,  a  young  fellow  came  to  me 
the  other  day.  He  had  kept  pigeons  until  his 
doctor  recommended  a  change,  and  then  he  had 
acquired  a  few  personal  friends,  and  they  were 
not  doing  well.  "  How  ought  I  to  feed  them  ?  " 
he  asked  me.  "  I  have  tried  oatmeal,  but  I 
do  not  get  any  sympathy  from  them." 

I  was  too  angry  with  the  young  fellow  to 
laugh  at  him.  Yet  many  fanciers  stand  just  as 


264  FLA  y  THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 


much  in  need  of  a  few  hints  as  he  did.  Never 
feed  your  personal  friends  at  all.  The  highest 
altruism  is  to  let  somebody  else  be  altruistic  to 
your  advantage.  Therefore  let  your  friends  feed 
you  and  entertain  you,  if  you  want  them  to  be 
really  happy.  I  have  adopted  this  method  for 
years,  and  never  had  any  trouble.  Of  course,  it 
was  equally  absurd  to  expect  sympathy  from 
personal  friends.  The  young  fellow  might  as 
well  have  expected  to  get  milk  from  his  pigeons. 
Personal  friends  give  dinners,  advice,  and  candid 
opinions,  but  not  sympathy.  If  you  want  sym- 
pathy you  must  go  to  the  mere  acquaintance 
or  the  entire  stranger.  You  pursue  an  entire 
stranger  into  a  smoking-compartment  at  the 
Temple  Station,  offer  him  a  window  concession, 
a  lighted  match,  and  an  evening  paper.  Then 
make  a  remark  upon  the  weather,  and  lead  up- 
ward. By  the  time  that  you  have  got  to  St. 
James's  Park  you  will  be  telling  him  the  story  of 
your  dear,  sacred  sorrow,  or  how  your  tailor  dis- 
appointed you,  or  anything  that  you  feel  deeply. 
Sympathy  and  South  Kensington  should  hap- 
pen simultaneously,  but  entire  strangers  have 


PERSONAL   FRIENDS.  265 

a  nasty  knack  of  getting  out  at  Gloucester  Road. 
If  you  bestow  a  confidence  on  a  personal  friend, 
he  is  almost  certain  to  return  it  quickly,  and 
this  kind  of  conversational  tennis  is  very  tiring. 
He  will  not  sympathize  with  you,  because  he 
knows  you  too  well  to  keep  up  any  absurd  affec- 
tation of  caring  one  straw  about  you. 

The  young  fancier  whom  I  have  mentioned 
complained  bitterly  that  his  personal  friends 
were  bad-tempered,  and  even  snapped  at  him 
when  he  gave  them  their  food.  I  am  quite 
willing  to  own  that  personal  friends  are  very 
dangerous  pets  ;  but  I  found  on  inquiry  that 
he  had  provoked  them  in  a  very  stupid  and 
needless  way.  He  had  been  foolish  enough  to 
have  a  small  success  right  before  their  eyes — in 
the  very  room  in  which  they  were  lying.  They 
naturally  flew  at  him  at  once.  Your  personal 
friends  never  forgive  your  success.  If  you  must 
succeed — and  I  have  never  found  it  necessary 
to  do  anything  of  the  kind — you  should  go  into 
some  disused  room,  lock  the  door,  draw  the 
blinds,  have  a  little  success — not  more  than  you 
can  help — and  never  say  anything  about  it.  It 


266  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

is  just  possible  that  your  personal  friends  may 
not  discover  it,  and  then  they  will  not  con- 
gratulate you  or  backbite  you.  This  young 
fancier  had  done  another  very  foolish  thing. 
He  had  lent  money  to  one  of  his  friends.  Of 
course,  the  friend  had  to  be  very  offensive  to 
keep  up  his  self-respect.  Never  lend  money, 
and  never  oblige  a  friend  in  any  way.  Evil  is 
wrought  by  too  much  heart  as  well  as  want  of 
head.  If  you  intend  to  keep  personal  friends, 
you  must  be  cruel  and  selfish,  otherwise  your 
pets  will  be  unhappy ;  I  never  have  the  least 
trouble  with  mine.  Fail  frequently,  borrow 
money,  let  them  feed  you,  and  flatter  them 
once  a  week.  This  makes  them  feel  grand 
and  consequently  they  become  attached  to  you. 
Authors  take  rather  more  flattery  than  the 
other  kinds,  but  you  need  not  try  to  borrow 
money  from  them  ;  they  are  all  so  wealthy  that 
they  cannot  understand  the  want  of  money  in 
others. 

I  have  only  spoken  of  bachelor  friends,  be- 
cause they  are  the  only  kind  that  I  ever  kept. 
If  one  will  only  follow  the  few  simple  hints  that 


PERSONAL   FRfENDS.  267 


I  have  given,  and  never  yield  to  momentary  fits 
of  kindness  or  good  temper,  they  do  very  well. 
It  is  a  little  difficult,  however,  to  get  rid  of 
them.  There  is  a  prejudice  against  selling  them 
or  giving  them  away.  If  you  have  influence, 
you  can  give  them  appointments  abroad.  If 
not,  the  best  plan  is  to  make  them  marry  some- 
one— anyone  will  do.  This  answers  very  well 
and  is  said  to  be  painless. 


VI.— NOTEBOOKS. 

MY  first  governess,  I  remember,  left  us  be- 
cause my  people  would  not  increase  her  salary 
by  five  pounds  annually.  In  this  I  think  they 
were  justified,  for  there  are  many  women  who 
are  willing  to  teach  everything,  know  some  of  it, 
and  wash  up  afterward,  in  exchange  for  a  com- 
fortable home,  without  any  salary  at  all.  Still, 
considering  the  circumstances,  I  think  it  was 
generous  of  my  governess  to  present  me  with  a 
book  as  a  token  of  affection  when  she  left.  I 
believe  that  she  did  so  because  I  was  a  singularly 
lovable  child  ;  but  I  have  heard  other  motives 
suggested.  Some  say  that  she  hoped  her  little 
offering  might  have  a  favorable  influence  on  the 
recommendation  which  she  carried  to  her  new 
post ;  but  these  are  cynics — people  who  sacri- 
fice truth  to  pungency.  The  book  in  question 
was  a  guide  to  anyone  who  wished  to  lead  a  bet- 
ter life.  It  was  a  complete  guide  ;  it  exhorted 
268 


NOTEBOOKS.  269 


to  personal  cleanliness  and  neatness  of  attire, 
and  it  did  not  forget  my  spiritual  needs  ;  it  also 
contained  a  chapter  on  the  culture  of  the 
intellect.  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  lost  the  book 
and  forgotten  the  title  of  it,  because  I  am  still 
anxious  to  lead  a  better  life. 

Unfortunately,  I  can  only  remember  very 
little  of  its  contents  now.  But  there  was  one 
injunction  in  the  chapter  on  the  culture  of  the 
intellect  which  impressed  me  very  much,  and 
which  first  led  me  to  the  practice  of  keeping 
notebooks.  It  was  this: 

"  Buy  a  notebook.  Put  down  in  it  anything 
which  strikes  you  in  your  reading,  any  remark- 
able moral  reflection  or  edifying  illustration 

which  may  fall  from  the  pulpit  on  Sunday,  and 

• 

any  useful  fact  which  seems  worth  remem- 
bering." 

There  was  another  injunction  in  the  chapter 
on  neatness  of  attire,  which  had  been  ap- 
parently written  by  another  hand.  It  ran 
thus: 

"  Do  not  bulge  your  pockets  with  oranges 
and  notebooks.  They  destroy  the  memory  as 


270  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

well  as  the  clothes,  and  should  be  discouraged. 
Always  brush  and  fold  up  after  using." 

To  this  day  I  do  not  know  how  clothes  de- 
stroy the  memory,  or  how  you  can  discourage 
an  orange,  or  why  you  should  brush  a  notebook. 
I  thought  at  the  time  that  the  chapter  on  the 
intellect  was  more  likely  to  be  right,  and  that  is 
why  I  went  to  my  uncle  William.  I  explained 
to  him  that  I  was  going  to  lead  a  better  life,  and 
that  if  he  would  give  me  two  shillings  to  get  a 
notebook  I  could  begin  at  once.  He  told  me 
it  was  cheaper  to  get  some  ordinary  paper,  cut 
it  up,  and  fold  it  in  book  form.  Sooner  than 
culture  my  intellect  with  a  sorry  makeshift  like 
that,  I  felt  that  I  would  leave  it  just  as  it  was. 
I  then  remembered  that  I  had  saved  up  a  little 
money  in  order  to  get  an  orphan  boy  admitted 
into  a  Sailors'  Home,  or  something  of  the  kind. 
I  took  that  money,  went  to  the  stationer's,  and 
asked  humbly  for  a  notebook. 

The  stationer  was  a  very  gloomy  man.  He 
pulled  out  three  drawers  and  said  hopelessly  : 
"These 'ere  are  ruled  for  accounts  and  intended 
for  business  purposes  ;  and  these  'ere  are  meant 


NOTEBOOKS.  271 


for  reporters  and  the  like  ;  and  these  'ere  are 
for  gentlemen." 

He  almost  intoned  the  words.  He  did  not 
think  I  \vas  going  to  buy  one.  I  chose  one  of 
the  best ;  it  had  a  brown,  glossy  coat,  a  very 
gentle  clasp,  and  a  small,  high-bred  stamp- 
pocket  ;  it  was  just  the  notebook  for  a  gentle- 
man. The  stationer  got  almost  cheerful  when 
he  had  wrapped  it  up  in  paper,  and  put  string 
round  it,  with  a  little  loop  by  which  I  could 
carry  it.  I  then  found  that  it  was  eight  shil- 
lings, and  as  I  had  only  saved  fourpence  for  the 
orphan  boy  I  was  not  able  to  take  it.  I  bought 
one  of  the  commercial  notebooks  instead.  The 
stationer  would  not  wrap  it  up  at  all.  He  sat  in 
one  corner  of  the  shop  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  sighed  at  me  as  I  went  out.  I  asked 
him  to  show  me  some  drawing-pins,  but  he  only 
shook  his  head  drearily. 

I  wrote  down  a  great  many  useful  facts  in 
my  notebook  at  first.  I  also  amused  myself 
with  entering  in  it  my  opinion  of  anyone  who 
had  offended  me.  Then  I  forgot  to  put  any- 
thing in  it,  and  it  ran  away.  Notebooks  may 


272  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

help  you  to  remember  other  things,  but  you 
want  something  to  make  you  remember  the 
notebook.  If  they  are.  not  fed  regularly,  they 
always  run  away.  Mine  went  to  the  laundress, 
and  stopped  there  for  a  few  days;  it  came  back 
with  my  uncle  William's  collars,  and  he  opened 
it  at  the  written  statement  that  he  was  a  liar,  to 
which  I  had  appended  my  opinion  of  the  ulti- 
mate end  of  all  liars.  There  was  no  defense. 

This  made  me  mistrust  notebooks.  I  did 
not  have  another  until  my  aunt  gave  me  one 
when  I  first  went  to  school.  It  was  a  magnif- 
icent animal  to  look  at,  very  showy  ;  with  a 
strong  back,  but  an  evil  temper.  It  must  have 
been  ill-treated  when  it  was  young.  It  had 
a  very  sharp  clasp,  and  it  used  it  freely  ;  during 
the  whole  time  that  it  was  in  my  possession  I  do 
not  remember  a  single  day  when  it  did  not  try 
to  bite  me.  And  it  had  powerful,  steel-shod 
corners  that  pawed  holes  in  all  my  pockets.  I 
used  to  write  all  my  themes  in  it,  so  it  got  plenty 
of  exercise,  but  I  never  subdued  its  spirit.  And 
I  never  subdued  its  appetite.  It  used  to  take 
fancies  for  things,  and  it  simply  would  have 


NOTEBOOKS.  273 


them.  I  had  a  birthday  card  which  represented 
an  angel ;  the  wings  folded  back  and  disclosed  a 
verse  of  a  hymn  and  a  scent-bag.  It  had  been 
sent  me  by  someone  who  was  very  dear  to  me, 
and  I  generally  carried  it  about  with  me.  My 
notebook  took  a  great  fancy  for  that  card,  and 
used  to  follow  it  about.  In  whatever  pocket  I 
put  that  card,  I  always  found  the  notebook 
waiting  for  it.  It  was  not  a  sentimental  attach- 
ment ;  it  simply  meant  that  the  notebook 
wanted  to  eat  it.  At  last  it  tried  to  get  it  into 
the  partition  which  was  marked  post-cards,  and 
crumpled  it  a  little.  I  was  so  disgusted  by  its 
greediness  that  I  exchanged  it  with  Pigbury  for 
an  old  British  coin.  He  made  me  give  him  the 
birthday  card  as  well,  which  did  not  show  very 
nice  feeling  in  Pigbury,  as  I  had  already  ex- 
plained to  him  that  I  had  especial  reasons  for 
valuing  that  card.  When  I  returned  home  my 
aunt  found  out  that  I  had  disposed  of  the  note- 
book which  she  had  given  me  with  her  own 
bony  hands.  There  was  no  defense. 

I    have    always    had    notebooks    since    this 
incident,  but  I  have  never  been  fortunate  with 


274  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

them.  However  great  one's  skill  as  a  fancier 
may  be,  one  can  never  be  entirely  superior  to 
fortune,  and  I  do  not  think  them  altogether 
satisfactory  pets.  It  is  true  that  they  will  eat 
anything ;  they  will  eat  scraps — newspaper 
scraps — which  you  would  not  care  to  eat  your- 
self. Some  of  the  more  robust  will  even  stand 
raw  verse  or  accounts  that  are  only  partially 
cooked.  But  (speaking  of  accounts  reminds  me 
of  this)  they  always  lose  their  figure.  They  are 
graceful  little  creatures  when  they  are  young, 
but  they  either  grow  meager  because  their 
owners  tear  out  too  many  leaves,  or  they  get 
bloated  and  plethoric,  because  they  are  allowed 
to  have  too  many  scraps.  In  this  respect  they 
present  a  striking  similarity  to  the  human  race, 
a  similarity  which  goes  far  toward  justifying 
the  well  known  scientific  theory  that  man  was 
evolved  from  a  notebook.  As  it  is  also  obvi- 
ous that  notebookswere  originally  evolved  from 
men,  we  see  that  existence  is  a  circle,  and  we  do 
away  with  the  necessity  for  a  first  cause.  The 
same  theory  provides  us  with  a  logical  defense 
of  the  hereditary  principle.  And  not  only  do 


NOTEBOOKS.  275 


notebooks  always  lose  their  graceful  figure,  but 
their  temper  is  proverbially  uncertain.  I  only 
know  one  story,  which  is  really  authentic,  of 
devotion  displayed  by  a  notebook.  It  hap- 
pened in  the  Crimea.  There  was  a  little  drum- 
mer-boy, who  owned  a  handsome  notebook 
that  had  been  given  him  by  his  mother.  He 
always  carried  it  in  his  breast  pocket.  He  was 
a  bright,  cheery  little  fellow,  and  everybody 
loved  him.  And  one  day  he  was  marching 
gayly  along,  drumming  on  his  little  drum,  when 
a  cannon-ball  came  after  him.  The  cannon- 
ball  was  going  so  much  faster  than  the  drum- 
mer-boy that  it  caught  him  up,  and,  as  it  was 
a  rainy  day,  got  inside.  It  was  found  after- 
ward that  if  the  cannon-ball  had  gone  one- 
sixteenth  of  an  inch  further  through  the  boy 
it  must  have  quite  spoiled  the  notebook. 


VII.— PIANO-TUNERS. 

PIANO-TUNERS — so  called  from  a  Greek  word 
signifying  one  who  never  wipes  his  boots — are 
very  difficult  to  domesticate  properly.  They 
may  be  enticed  into  the  house  by  the  offer  of  a 
piano  to  tune  ;  but  as  soon  as  they  have  satisfied 
their  appetite  with  it,  they  rush  off  at  once,  un- 
less they  are  forcibly  prevented.  Our  greatest 
living  naturalist  says  in  a  recent  work :  "  I  am 
not  acquainted  with  any  instance  of  piano- 
tuners  being  kept  in  a  state  of  captivity.  Little 
is  known  of  their  habits,  as  opportunities  for 
observation  are  very  rare."  Another  writer  of 
hardly  less  repute  merely  remarks  that  they  are 
very  shy,  have  sharp  talents,  and  a  very  moderate 
bill.  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  if  these 
two  writers  had  only  exercised  a  little  patient 
research,  they  might  have  had  much  more  to  tell 
us.  They  are  not  even  correct.  I  myself  own  a 

beautifully  marked  piano-tuner,  who  comes  to 
276 


PI  A  NO- 1  •  UNKRS.  277 


me  every  few  months.  They  like  their  liberty, 
it  is  true  ;  but  when  they  get  to  know  you,  they 
always  come  back  at  regular  intervals.  Their 
curious  passion  for  tuning  pianos  is  very  strong, 
and  may  be  utilized  to  secure  their  capture. 
Take  a  piano,  put  it  into  a  furniture  van,  and 
shut  the  doors;  then  drive  it  slowly  down  the 
street  of  any  suburb.  Presently  you  will  see  a 
group  of  these  interesting  little  animals,  with 
their  anxious  faces  and  little  black  bags,  running 
behind  the  van,  and  only  pausing  to  fight  one 
another.  So  remarkable  is  their  instinct  that 
they  can  scent  a  grand  piano  on  a  clear  day  at  a 
distance  of  over  two  miles.  It  is  easy  enough  to 
select  from  the  little  group  of  tuners  the  one 
which  you  would  like  to  have  for  your  own  ;  a 
few  shots  will  disperse  the  rest.  But  their 
plumage  is  not  very  valuable,  and  it  would  be 
brutal  to  kill  many  of  them.  Although,  as 
I  have  pointed  out,  they  are  very  pugnacious 
among  themselves,  they  rarely  bite  a  fancier. 
When  you  have  selected  your  tuner,  give  him  a 
piano  to  worry,  and  then  let  him  go  away.  Do 
not  keep  him  on  the  chain,  because  that  will 


278  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

only  make  him  unhappy.  If  you  have  treated 
him  properly,  he  will  probably  come  back  toyou. 
When  they  are  not  devouring  pianos,  it  is 
believed  that  tuners  make  their  lair  in  little 
tropical  drawing  rooms,  where  there  are  stuffed 
hummingbirds  and  lusciouswaxen  fruit,  and  the 
tenants  flit  softly  away  in  the  moonlight.  There 
is  generally  a  brass  plate  outside,  and  it  is  said 
that  females  of  the  species  are  as  likely  as  not,  if 
provoked,  to  undertake  dressmaking.  But  this 
is  mere  conjecture.  In  the  same  way  the  state- 
ment that  the  females  of  piano-tuners  always 
teach  in  a  Sunday  school  is  only  supposition, 
based  on  the  fact,  which  so  many  fanciers  have 
noticed,  that  piano-tuners  invariably  refuse  a 
second  glass  of  sherry. 

I  have  frequently  been  asked  by  young 
fanciers  on  what  principles  one  should  choose  a 
piano-tuner.  It  is  an  easy  enough  task.  Just  as 
one  prefers  a  velveteen-coated  photographer  to 
the  other  kind,  because  he  appears  to  have  a 
higher  tone,  but  is  not  more  expensive  ;  so,  in 
choosing  a  tuner,  you  should  select  the  one 
which  has  the  longest  hair.  Of  course,  a  good 


PIANO-TUNERS.  279 


deal  depends  on  the  purpose  for  which  you  want 
him.  The  long-hatred  invest  their  work  with 
the  most  artistic  merit ;  but  those  which  part 
their  hair  in  the  middle  are  the  best  conversa- 
tionalists, and  are  far  more  likely  to  wear  var- 
nished boots.  It  is  not  altogether  pleasant  to 
watch  a  hungry  tuner  at  work.  You  turn  the 
animal  into  the  room  where  the  poor  piano  is 
lying.  He  glares  wildly  around,  until  he  sees 
his  prey ;  then  throws  down  his  hat,  and  dashes 
at  the  instrument.  In  a  moment  he  has  torn 
off  its  hide,  and  you  may  hear  him  breathing 
heavily,  with  his  head  in  its  entrails.  Then  he 
withdraws  his  head,  and  proceeds  more  slowly 
with  his  repast,  taking  little  pecks  at  it.  The 
poor  instrument  cries  piteously,  but  it  is  not 
safe  to  interfere  with  a  tuner  after  he  has  once 
tasted  octaves.  When  he  first  opens  the  piano 
it  is,  however,  usual  to  make  some  remark  in 
order  to  encourage  him  ;  if  the  remark  is  tech- 
nical, it  should  be  correct.  It  is  not  right  to 
say,  "The  mainspring's  gone,  I'm  afraid;"  or, 
"  There  will  be  a  good  deal  of  soot  in  it,  as  we 
didn't  have  it  done  last  winter."  That  sort  of 


280  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 


thing  only  makes  the  tuner  angry;  it  is  both 
kinder  and  wiser  to  point  out  to  him  how 
seasonable  the  weather  is. 

If  you  intend  to  keep  a  piano-tuner,  you 
must  be  very  careful  not  to  disappoint  him. 
Tuners  are  sensitive  creatures.  A  man  once 
told  a  young,  fair-haired  tuner  to  come  in 
the  afternoon,  not  knowing  that  his  wife  had 
told  a  grizzled  plethoric  tuner  to  come  in  the 
morning.  So  when  the  young  fair-haired 
animal  came  in  the  afternoon,  the  piano  was 
already  tuned.  But  the  butler  knew  nothing 
about  it,  and  shut  the  animal  up  in  the  drawing 
room  alone,  and  put  sherry  within  easy  reach. 
After  an  interval  of  two  hours  the  butler  en- 
tered the  room  again,  and  found  the  tuner  dead 
on  the  music-s'tool,  with  his  head  in  a  black  bag 
of  tuning  instruments.  It  is  supposed  that  the 
poor  animal,  finding  the  instrument  in  perfect 
tune,  then  tried  the  pitch.  You  cannot  touch 
pitch  without  being  defiled,  and  the  disap- 
pointment, defilement,  and  sherry — acting  to- 
gether on  an  already  enfeebled  constitution — 
had  broken  the  tuner's  heart.  I  forget  what 


PIANO-  TUNERS.  2  8 1 

they  did  with  the  body,  but  I  do  not  think  they 
had  it  stuffed.  On  the  other  hand,  another 
friend  assured  me  that  he  had  his  piano  tuned 
by  three  of  these  animals  in  one  day,  and  that 
they  all  of  them  told  him  that  it  wanted  doing 
very  badly.  His  rooms  were  wrecked  that 
night  by  the  occupants  of  other  rooms  on  the 
same  staircase,  but  otherwise  he  seemed 
pleased  with  his  experiment. 


VIIL— DUKES. 

MY  friends  are  always  complaining  to  me 
about  my  dukes.  They  say  that  I  have  too 
many,  that  I  ought  not  to  allow  them  in  the 
house,  and  that  they  are  very  ill-mannered. 
There  may,  perhaps,  be  something  in  the  com- 
plaints, but  what  can  I  do?  I  own  between 
thirty  and  forty  dukes,  and  although  they  are 
safely  locked  up  in  an  old  shed  during  the 
night,  they  simply  will  get  into  the  house  in 
the  daytime.  As  a  rule,  I  do  not  think  that 
they  do  much  harm ;  most  of  them  are  good- 
tempered,  and  all  of  them  are  quite  clean,  for  I 
have  them  well  washed  with  carbolic  soap  once 
every  fortnight.  But  there  are,  of  course,  ex- 
ceptional cases.  Now,  some  time  ago  I  bought 
a  large  duke  who  had  been  in  an  American 
novel  and  got  his  temper  spoiled.  I  have  told 
my  servants  time  after  time  that  I  will  not  have 
this  animal  in  the  drawing  room — that  they 
may  make  as  much  fuss  with  him  as  they  like 


DUKES.  283 

in  the  kitchen,  but  that  on  no  account  is  he  to 
be  allowed  to  go  any  further  than  the  kitchen. 
I  have  tried,  too,  to  make  the  duke  himself  see 
that  the  kitchen  is  his  proper  place.  But  it  is 
all  of  no  use.  However  careful  my  servants 
are,  and  however  often  I  thrash  him  for  his  dis- 
obedience, he  is  certain  to  break  bounds;  and 
then,  of  course,  there  is  unpleasantness.  It  is 
not  very  nice  for  a  visitor,  just  ushered  into  the 
drawing  room,  to  find  a  great  fat  duke  asleep 
on  the  hearthrug  in  front  of  the  fire ;  and  it  is 
especially  unpleasant  when  the  beast  uncurls 
himself,  sits  up,  and  begins  to  talk  about  his 
order.  I  really  hardly  know  what  to  do  with 
him.  He  has  a  way  of  saying  "Noblesse  oblige" 
and  not  caring  where  he  says  it.  Then,  again, 
there  was  a  duke  in  "Sir  Percival" ;  I  do  not 
know  if  you  remember  him.  I  bought  him  ;  he 
was  expensive,  but  I  do  not  care  what  I  give 
for  a  really  good  duke.  He  was  well  marked, 
with  a  broad  blue  ribbon,  as  it  were,  across  his 
chest ;  and  when  he  passed  through  the  market 
place,  he  would  speak  many  a  gracious  word. 
The  first  suspicion  that  T  had  of  his  temper,  was 


284  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

when  the  butler  complained  about  him.  It  ap- 
peared that  he  had  formed  a  habit  of  smelling 
every  cork  that  was  drawn,  and  carefully  ex- 
amining both  ends;  he  would  then  shrug  his 
shoulders,  frown,  and  completely  lose  the  drift 
of  the  conversation.  As  the  butler  pointed 
out  to  me,  no  one  in  the  kitchen  could  possibly 
stand  such  manners.  I  was  reluctant  to  lose 
the  animal,  and  tried  to  break  him  of  the  habit 
by  keeping  him  on  Apollinaris.  It  was  of  no 
use,  and  shortly  afterward  the  poor  thing's  sense 
of  its  social  status  became  so  acute  that  it  was 
no  kindness  to  keep  him  alive  any  longer.  An- 
other of  my  failures  was  also  a  novel  duke. 
He  had  been  in  Mr.  Crawford's  "Dr.  Claudius." 
He  was  quite  simple,  wore  cheap  clothes,  and 
seemed  able  to  forget  that  he  had  any  particu- 
lar rank.  The  simplicity  and  forgetfulness  were 
a  little  ostentatious,  perhaps,  but  he  had  no 
serious  vices;  he  did  not,  for  instance,  drop 
many  a  gracious  word.  Yet  an  accident  com- 
pelled me  to  get  rid  of  him.  He  had  gone  into 
the  garden  in  the  dusk,  to  get  strawberry  leaves, 
and  I  mistook  him  for  the  gardener.  Unfor- 


DUKES.  285 

tunately  the  gardener  got  to  hear  of  it,  and  was 
much  hurt.  So,  to  prevent  the  mistake  occur- 
ring again,  I  sold  the  duke. 

I  have  been  asked  whether  I  recommend 
English  or  foreign  dukes.  Either  do  very  well 
if  you  can  only  conquer  their  passion  for  social 
aggrandizement.  As  a  rule,  the  English  duke 
has  the  greater  property,  and  the  foreign  duke 
has  the  darker  mustache;  the  foreign  duke  is 
more  of  a  villain,  and  the  English  duke  is  more 
of  a  bore;  but  these  distinctions  only  hold 
in  the  case  of  novel-bred  dukes.  Novel-bred 
dukes  are  more  satisfactory  than  the  other  kind, 
although  I  myself  keep  both.  I  have  only  got 
one  literary  duke,  and  I  cannot  remember  at 
the  present  moment  whether  he  is  novel-bred 
or  not.  But  he  is  always  shedding  articles 
about  the  house,  and  I  hardly  know  what  to  do 
with  them.  If  only  we  had  some  monthly  re. 
view  which  made  a  specialty  of  ducal  articles, 
without  much  regard  to  their  inward  merit,  I 
could  send  them  there ;  but,  of  course,  there  is 
nothing  of  the  sort  in  existence.  As  it  is,  I 
find  these  articles  lying  all  over  the  house — one 


286  PLAYTHINGS  AXD  PARODIES. 

on  the  mantelpiece,  another  on  the  carpet,  and 
a  third  very  likely  on  the  income  tax.  But,  as 
I  have  already  said,  the  main  difficulty  is  to  put 
a  stop  to  their  social  ambitions.  Few  dukes,  at 
any  rate  very  few  of  my  collection,  are  willing 
to  stop  downstairs  in  the  kitchen ;  and  yet,  if 
they  come  upstairs,  one's  friends  begin  to  com- 
plain at  once.  I  often  think,  cynically  enough, 
when  I  go  to  feed  my  dukes  or  to  superintend 
their  fortnightly  bath,  that  probably  at  least 
half  of  the  beasts  consider  themselves  to  be 
every  bit  as  good  as  I  am.  The  duke  that  I  got 
from  "Dr.  Claudius,"  however,  was  quite  differ- 
ent. He  had  a  proper  sense  of  shame.  I've 
known  him  run  off  into  the  garden,  scratch  up  a 
hole,  and  bury  all  his  titles  and  family  estates 
in  it ;  then  he  would  come  back,  and  put  his 
cold  nose  into  my  hand,  and  fawn  on  me,  and 
try  to  make  me  believe  that  he  was  his  butler. 
It  was  a  pretty  and  pathetic  incident,  and  a 
pleasing  contrast  to  the  conduct  of  some  of 
my  other  dukes,  who  will  go  running  after 
American  heiresses.  Of  course,  they  only 
get  snubbed  for  their  pains. 


DUKES.  287 

Yes,  in  spite  of  what  my  friends  may  say,  I 
love  my  dukes.  It  is  the  natural  sympathy  of 
the  strong  for  the  weak.  The  poor  animals 
have  been  terribly  handicapped  in  the  race  of 
life,  and  I  feel  for  them,  and  I  .think  they  are 
happy  with  me.  The  strict  discipline,  plain 
living,  plain  speaking,  and  carbolic  soap  are 
good  for  them,  and  they  know  it.  Occasionally 
one  of  them  will  so  far  forget  himself  as. to  drop 
a  gracious  word ;  and,  of  course,  I  have  had  to 
put  up  with  the  exceptional  cases  that  I  have 
already  mentioned ;  but  on  the  whole  they  are 
getting  to  be  very  well  trained — I  had  almost 
said  civilized.  They  will  never,  I  am  afraid,  be 
quite  as  common  as  canaries,  but  I  do  not  see 
any  reason  why  every  middle-class  household 
should  not  own  at  least  one  of  them.  The  prej- 
udice which  exists  against  them  at  present  is 
perfectly  senseless,  but  it  has  prevented  fanciers 
from  devoting  proper  attention  to  them.  And 
do  not  be  misled  by  silly  stories  about  their 
appetite ;  they  eat  very  little,  if  any,  more  than 
ordinary  people. 


IX.— BABIES. 

BABIES  are  various.  They  resemble  invalids 
in  their  habits  of  browsing  on  milk;  political 
programmes  in  their  absence  of  any  decided 
features;  typewriters  in  their  refusal  to  work; 
and  steam  whistles  in  the  gentle  cooing  sounds 
which  they  are  said  to  produce.  But,  in  spite 
of  these  minor  points  of  resemblance,  natural- 
ists are  probably  correct  in  regarding  them  as  a 
kind  of  serpent.  Nor  have  they  come  to  this 
conclusion  merely  on  the  ground  that  both 
babies  and  serpents  require  warmth;  that  is 
merely  a  point  which  they  have  in  common 
with  soup,  the  affections,  and  many  other 
things.  There  is  more  evidence  than^that. 
Notice  the  gliding,  undulatory  motion  of  a  large 
baby  as  it  crosses  the  nursery  carpet ;  notice, 
too,  the  wicked  looks  of  the  hooded  variety,  or 
listen  to  their  terrible  rattle;  or  throw  a  num- 
ber of  schoolgirls  into  the  cage  in  which  your 
baby  is  placed,  and  see  the  deadly  fascination 


BABIES.  289 

which  it  exercises  over  the  poor  creatures. 
There  they  stand,  under  his  glassy,  hypnotic 
stare,  swaying  a  little  to  and  fro;  they  cannot 
escape,  even  though  you  leave  the  cage  door 
wide  open ;  presently  their  terror  causes  a  par- 
tial paralysis  of  the  vocal  organs ;  they  are  no 
longer  able  to  speak  articulate  English,  and 
their  efforts  only  result  in  gibberish  ;  then  they 
draw  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  crouching  baby, 
and  in  another  minute  they  are  in  its  clutches. 
The  scene  is  too  painful  for  further  description, 
but  enough  has  been  said  to  show  what  the 
real  nature  of  these  reptiles  is.  Still  a  few 
schoolgirls  more  or  less  do  not  matter,  and 
where  babies  are  properly  under  the  control  of 
adults  they  are  not  really  dangerous  The  great 
point  is  not  to  let  them  see  that  you  are  afraid 
of  them.  If  you  are  going  to  kiss  them,  or  to 
punish  them  in  any  other  way,  you  must  simply 
show  a  little  pluck.  Some  young  men  shirk 
kissing  babies,  and  afterward  allow  themselves 
to  be  led  into  it.  That  is  not  right;  there 
should  be  no  hesitation.  I  find  that  the  best 
way  is  to  shut  the  eyes,  hold  the  breath,  and 


290  PLA  YTH1NGS  AND   PARODIES. 


take  a  short  run  at  it.  I  mean  that  this  way 
suits  me  the  best,  personally ;  I  own  that  it  gen- 
erally produces  in  the  baby  that  gentle  cooing 
sound  to  which  I  have  already  referred,  and 
nursemaids  say  rather  bitter  things  about  me 
afterward. 

Any  number  of  middle-aged  bachelors  who 
are  anxious  to  have  a  baby  in  their  chambers  to 
pet  have  written  to  ask  me  where  a  fat  one-year- 
old  specimen  can  generally  be  found.  Well, 
there  are  many  places ;  although,  of  course,  they 
have  one  or  two  special  haunts.  You  will  find 
two  or  three  babies,  as  a  rule,  on  the  edge  of  any 
precipice.  Or  you  can  ride  a  bicycle  through  a 
suburb  and  afterward  brush  a  dozen  or  so  off 
the  spokes  of  the  machine ;  the  chief  objection 
to  this  is  that  they  sometimes  get  soiled  or  even 
broken  in  the  process.  The  simplest  way  is  to 
look  in  any  smoking  compartment.  There  you 
will  never  be  disappointed.  If  there  is  a  mother 
attached  to  the  child,  it  is  usual  to  throw  her 
out  of  window.  Even  after  you  have  found  a 
baby,  it  is  just  possible  that  you  may  not  know 
what  to  do  with  it.  It  is  not  necessary  to 


BABIES.  291 

slightly  compress  a  baby's  back  in  order  to  make 
it  say  "Papa!"  In  fact,  by  so  doing  you  may 
damage  its  works;  the  mistake  is  generally 
made  by  those  who  have  recollections  of  youth- 
ful experiences  in  toy  shops.  The  proper  way 
is  to  put  your  own  nose  within  an  inch  of  such 
nose  as  the  baby  possesses,  make  a  bad  face,  and 
then  distinctly  mispronounce  the  word.  An- 
other mistake  was  made  by  one  of  my  dukes — 
I  think  it  was  the  duke  I  got  out  of  "Sir  Perci- 
val."  He  was  congratulating  himself  on  the 
idea  that  only  the  upper  classes  in  London  pos- 
sessed babies.  He  was  deceived,  of  course,  by 
a  mere  difference  of  nomenclature.  Byebies 
are  the  same  as  babies — just  as  the  tinned 
peaches  of  the  grocer  are  precisely  the  same  as 
the  peches  en  compote  of  the  Italian  restaurant. 
I  have  been  asked  why  young  babies  have 
hair  so  short  as  to  be  almost  imperceptible.  It 
is  to  make  up  for  the  excessive  length  of  their 
clothes  at  the  other  end.  This  is  the  law  of 
compensation  which  we  notice  working  every- 
where in  nature.  Often  when  I  have  seen  some 
poor  baby  wearing  its  feet  where  its  waist  should 


292  PLA  YTJHNGS  AND  PARODIES. 

have  been,  it  has  comforted  me  to  think  that 
after  all  it  need  never  brush  its  hair.  Natural 
laws  prevail  everywhere ;  if  you  drop  your  baby 
out  of  the  window,  it  will  fall  as  far  as  the  pave- 
ment and  then  it  will  stop.  It  was  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  who  first  made  this  experiment.  But 
I  must  not  linger  any  longer  upon  these  deep 
and  philosophical  reflections ;  if,  however,  you 
are  not  sufficiently  educated  to  understand 
them,  they  will,  at  any  rate,  show  you  that  one 
may  take  the  keenest  interest  in  home  pets, 
and  yet  have  a  cultured  mind. 

Those  who  are  less  philosophical  and  more 
practical  have  often  urged  that  babies  are  un- 
profitable pets,  that  one  gets  nothing  out  of 
them.  This  is  not  altogether  fair.  They  have 
many  pretty  tricks  which  it  is  interesting  to 
watch.  Did  you  ever  see  a  baby  cut  a  tooth? 
It  begins  on  the  outside  edge,  and  ends  on  the 
high  G.  Or,  if  tricks  are  not  practical  enough 
to  please  these  captious  critics,  I  may  point  out 
that  babies  taste  very  much  like  young  dairy- 
fed  pork.  They  make,  in  fact,  a  capital  break- 
fast dish,  as  every  epicure  knows. 


X.— FIRES. 

FlRES,  like  ghosts  and  eggs,  have  to  be  laid. 
They  resemble  cats  in  their  dissipated  habit  of 
going  out  late  at  night.  They  have,  in  short, 
the  most  varied  and  complex  character  of  any 
of  my  Home  Pets.  In  some  respects  they  are 
ludicrously  irrational.  In  really  hot  weather 
the  only  room  in  the  house  in  which  they  seem 
to  care  about  sitting,  is  the  hottest  of  all,  the 
kitchen.  You  cannot  laugh  them  out  of  this 
absurd  habit.  In  the  cold  weather  they  may  be 
put  in  any  room  where  there  is  a  cage  for  them. 
I  have  got  a  fire  which  never  seems  to  be  happy 
unless  it  is  sitting  immediately  in  front  of  me; 
it  does  not  say  much,  but  it  just  looks  at  me 
through  the  bars  of  its  cage,  pensively  and 
dreamily,  as  if  it  could  see  pictures  in  me.  One 
must  be  prepared  for  a  certain  display  of  tem- 
per in  these  eccentric  little  creatures.  On  the 


294  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PAKOD1F.S. 

most  bitterly  cold  days  they  will  monopolize 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  front  of  the  hearthrug; 
and,  as  long  as  they  are  warm,  they  seem  to  care 
nothing  about  anybody  else.  Sometimes  they 
get  so  fierce  that  it  is  really  not  pleasant  to  go 
near  them.  At  other  times  they  just  sit  and 
mope.  These  defects  are  often  due  to  errors  of 
diet.  Before  you  get  angry  with  your  fire,  ask 
yourself,  in  common  fairness,  whether  you  have 
been  starving  the  poor  beast,  or  overfeeding  it, 
or  feeding  it  on  the  wrong  things.  The  other 
day  I  came  into  my  room  and  looked  round  for 
my  fire.  There  it  was,  huddled  up  in  one  corner 
of  the  cage,  looking  as  black  as  possible,  and 
sulkily  sucking  the  poker.  I  whistled  to  it 
cheerfully,  but  it  took  no  notice.  Then  I  drew 
the  poker  out  of  its  mouth,  quite  gently,  dug  it 
in  the  ribs  once  or  twice,  and  threw  it  a  couple 
of  lumps  of  sugar  as  a  treat.  It  gave  a  slight 
cough,  and  began  to  stretch  itself.  In  order  to 
interest  it,  I  held  up  a  large  prospectus  of  a  new 
mining  company  close  to  it — fires  are  very  short- 
sighted. It  soon  brightened  up,  and  chuckled 
audibly ;  finally  it  thrust  out  a  claw  through  the 


FIRES.  295 

bars,  caught  hold  of  the  prospectus,  and  ate  the 
whole  thing  up.  Well,  I  only  wanted  it  to  be 
happy,  and  I  forgave  its  greediness. 

Perhaps  a  few  words  on  this  question  of  diet 
may  not  be  amiss.  Of  course,  everyone  knows 
that  the  staple  diet  of  fires  is  coal.  They  must 
be  coaled  if  you  want  them  to  be  hot — one  of 
those  paradoxical  truths  that  have  a  wonderful 
yet  half-dreary  interest  for  those  who,  like  my- 
self, are  constantly  engaged  in  a  study  of  the 
more  serious  problems  of  existence.  But  the 
diet  should  be  varied.  A  few  sticks  may  be 
given  to  your  fires  in  the  early  morning,  when 
there  is  no  one  about ;  the  noise  which  they 
make  in  crunching  them  is  rather  vulgar  and  un- 
pleasant to  hear,  and  they  cannot  be  taught  to 
eat  them  noiselessly.  Fires  are  particularly 
fond  of  paper;  but  too  much  of  it  is  not  good 
for  them,  and  makes  them  dull  and  depressed. 
I  can  remember  one  day — a  day  when  the  sun- 
light seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  my  young  life, 
and  I  had  returned  her  letters  and  she  had  re- 
turned mine — that  I  gave  my  fire  two  pounds  of 
prime  note  paper  cut  rather  thick.  The  beast 


296  FLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

flew  at  it  and  licked  up  four  or  five  sonnets  with 
avidity;  then  it  looked  unhappy  and  seemed  to 
want  to  put  the  rest  back.  I  can  never  forgive 
myself  for  it,  but  I  made  it  go  on  eating,  and  it 
finished  all  but  one  short  postscript.  Then  the 
poor,  faithful,  obedient  creature  gave  a  pathetic 
look  at  me,  and  lay  down  and  died.  It  may 
have  been  my  guilty  conscience,  but  I  hardly 
liked  to  stop  in  the  room  where  the  body  of  the 
dead  fire  was  lying;  it  gave  me  an  uncanny  sen- 
sation of  coldness.  If  your  fire  gets  low-spirited, 
it  means  that  it  wants  some  sugar;  but  do  not 
feed  it  entirely  on  sugar,  because  it  makes  one's 
housemaids  so  sticky. 

Do  not  wash  your  fires  as  you  would  wash  any 
other  pets,  with  soap  and  water.  It  is  not  good 
for  them.  I  spilt  a  kettleful  of  water  over  my 
fire  the  other  day,  and  it  did  not  like  it  at  all ;  it 
was  quite  put  out  about  it.  You  should  groom 
them  gently  with  a  brush  that  is  sold  for  the 
purpose.  This  makes  their  coats  bright  and 
glossy.  If  you  find  that  a  display  of  temper  on 
the  part  of  a  fire  comes  not  from  wrong  diet  but 
from  innate  viciousness,  you  must  be  very  firm 


FIRES.  297 

with  it,  and  at  the  same  time  you  must  not  lose 
control  over  yourself.  Treat  it  just  as  you 
would  treat  your  wife  or  your  mother  under 
similar  circumstances.  Kick  it,  and  beat  it 
over  the  head  with  the  poker. 

I  shrink  naturally  from  telling  any  anecdotes 
about  the  intelligence  of  my  pets,  because  I  have 
a  sensitive  temperament  and  cannot  bear  to  be 
doubted.  But  the  following  story  was  told  me 
by  a  man  who,  I  am  sure,  would  sooner  die  than 
misrepresent  a  fact  or  lead  anyone  to  believe  the 
thing  which  is  not.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  political 
journalist.  Besides,  the  anecdote  in  question 
seems  to  me  to  contain  strong  internal  evidence 
of  its  truth. 

"I  had  often  noticed,"  my  friend  told  me, 
"that  when  I  had  settled  myself  for  the  evening 
in  my  easy-chair  with  my  meerschaum,  my  fire, 
like  yours,  had  taken  up  its  position  immedi- 
ately in  front  of  me.  It  always  looked  at  me 
long  and  curiously,  as  though  it  were  imagining 
landscapes  in  my  waistcoat  or  building  castles 
in  my  hair,  as  the  poets  say.  Little  did  I  imag- 
ine, then,  that  it  had  its  eye  on  my  meerschaum. 


298  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

One  evening,  however,  I  happened  to  go  out, 
leaving  a  box  of  cigars  behind  me  open  on  the 
table.  When  I  came  back  again,  about  an  hour 
afterward,  my  fire  ivas  smoking.  It  is  some  con- 
solation to  me  now — some  small  consolation — 
to  think  that  all  that  could  be  done  was  done. 
In  my  agony  I  stirred  it  up  with  the  best  poker, 
the  poker  that  was  so  ugly  and  costly  that  I 
generally  used  it  only  as  an  ornament.  I 
argued  with  it.  I  showed  it  that  smoking  must 
stunt  its  expenses  and  increase  its  growth. 
But  nothing  that  I  could  do — nothing  that 
anyone  could  do — could  break  it  of  the  vile 
and  detestable  habit  which  it  had  formed. 
It  was  no  kindness  to  ourselves  to  allow  it 
to  go  on  smoking  any  longer.  It  had  to 
be  killed.  One  of  the  housemaids  did  it  — 
I  couldn't.  And  now  that  fire's  dead — dead 
—dead !" 

At  this  point  my  friend  who  is,  like  all  jour- 
nalists, of  a  gentle  and  tender-hearted  nature, 
completely  broke  down.  "Ah!"  he  sobbed, 
"it  was  my  own  filthy  example  that  did  it,  and 
that's  what's  breaking  my  heart.  I've  used  my 


FIRES.  299 

last  match.     You  might  give  me  a  light  from 
yours." 

Reader,  need  I  point  out  what  the  moral 
of  this  story  is?  Think  it  over  for  yourself. 
Go  quietly  to  your  own  room,  and  think  it 
over. 


XI.— CURATES. 

I  DO  not  wish  to  speak  of  curates  in  the 
natural  state,  of  curates  in  church.  I  have 
observed  them  in  their  native  aisles,  but  I  do 
not  forget  that  I  am  writing  of  home  pets,  and 
I  only  intend  to  mention  the  domesticated 
curate. 

Only  the  other  day  a  lady  consulted  me  on 
the  subject  of  curates.  She  generally  had  a 
few  in  her  greenhouse,  or  playing  about  with 
tennis-balls  on  the  lawn.  "I  can  never,"  she 
said,  "remember  the  different  varieties.  I  have 
fixed  labels  on  them  sometimes,  in  order  to 
make  no  mistake,  but  the  vexatious  little  ani- 
mals tear  them  off."  The  difficulty  is  not  an 
uncommon  one ;  for  although  they  can  be  easily 
distinguished  in  the  natural  state,  they  are  in- 
clined to  resemble  one  another  when  domesti- 
cated. Fortunately,  one  of  my  dearest  friends 
is  the  butler  at  a  house  where  there  are  a  good 


CURATES.  301 


many  curates  kept ;  it  is  a  sort  of  curate  ranch, 
in  fact,  and  I  have  the  benefit  of  his  opinion. 
But,  unfortunately,  I  know  him  to  be  preju- 
diced, and  consequently  cannot  value  that 
opinion  as  much  as  I  might  otherwise  have 
done.  He  says  that  he  observes  the  Bibles 
which  they  occasionally  leave  on  the  hall 
table,  and  has  noticed  : 

(1)  That    low-church     curates    have     large, 
plainly    bound    Bibles,    with  flaps,  filled  with 
loose  sheets  of  paper — which  may  be  (a)  hymn 
lists,  (b)  verse,  (c)  notes  in  pencil  of  the  sermons 
of  other  curates — and  secured  with  an  elastic 
band. 

(2)  That  the  Bible  of  the  high-church  curate 
is  smaller,  has  an  ornamental  binding,  and  con- 
tains an  extract  from  St.  Augustine  written  on 
the  title  page. 

(3)  That    the    broad-church    curate    has    no 
Bible,  but  manages  to  get  along  with  selections. 

Of  course,  I  do  not  say  that  these  opinions 
are  absolutely  correct ;  as  I  said  before,  the 
butler  was  prejudiced,  although  I  cannot  re- 
member exactly  at  the  present  minute  which 


302  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 


side  his  prejudices  favored.  I  have  often 
thought  that  curates  might,  when  in  the  do- 
mesticated state,  be  distinguished  not  so  much 
by  the  ordinary  scientific  terms,  dividing  them 
into  three  classes,  as  by  the  qualities  which 
they  bear. 

For  instance,  there  is  the  intellectual  curate, 
one  of  the  commonest  kinds.  He  will,  in  the 
natural  state,  quote  the  original  Greek,  and, 
when  he  is  kept  in  a  house,  he  is  likely  to  read 
fine  pieces  of  poetry  aloud.  I  have  in  my  pos- 
session a  copy  of  the  poetical  works  of  Long- 
fellow, given  to  me  when  I  was  young  as  "A 
Reward  for  Marked  Improvement  in  Hand- 
writing," and  there  are  three  holes  cried  straight 
through  the  most  pathetic  part  of "  Evangeline." 
The  damage  was  done  indirectly  by  an  intel- 
lectual curate  with  a  rich  tremor  in  his  voice. 
I  should  have  not  minded  it  so  much  if  they  had 
been  my  own  tears;  a  man  has  a  perfect  right 
to  weep  his  copy  of  "Evangeline"  into  sheer 
pulp  if  he  likes;  but  he  does  not  care  to  have 
his  books  spoiled  by  aunts  whom  he  does  not 
value.  Then  there  is  the  athletic  curate, 


CUR  A  TES.  303 

whose  similarity  to  a  Mexican  mustang  will 
be  recognized  by  anyone  who  has  never  seen 
either.  He  looks  very  free  and  fearless  as  he 
dashes  past  one  on  his  tricycle,  tossing  his  head 
at  intervals  to  increase  his  impetus,  and  sniffing 
the  morning  breeze.  You  can  generally  keep 
this  kind  in  the  stable.  But  although  he  is 
an  athlete,  he  never  forgets  that  he  is  a  curate, 
and  I  believe  that  his  passion  for  lawn  tennis 
is  connected  with  the  service.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  social  curate  may  be  allowed  to  come 
into  the  drawing  room.  He  will  get  into  a 
corner  and  purr.  Or  you  can  pour  a  cup  of  tea 
into  the  slot,  and  draw  out  a  candid  opinion  of 
the  vicar.  Yet  in  the  end  the  curate  becomes 
a  vicar,  just  as  the  common  frog  becomes  a  tad- 
pole, or  a  chrysalis,  or  something  of  the  kind. 
Then,  of  course,  there  is  the  sad,  soulful  curate 
of  fiction,  who  suffers  terribly  from  doubts; 
sooner  or  later  he  discovers  that  he  is  a  fraud ; 
then  in  a  crowded  church,  a  fit  of  remorse,  and 
a  chapter  headed  Non  sum  dignus  !  he  preaches 
a  farewell  sermon ;  there  is  a  quivering  gasp  in 
his  voice ;  the  congregation  weep,  for  they  all 


304  PLA  Y THINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

love  him ;  the  curate  weeps  and  the  vicar 
weeps ;  the  air  is  redolent  with  agony.  And, 
lastly,  there  are  some  curates  who  never  get 
domesticated  at  all. 

Why,  it  may  be  asked,  should  one  keep 
curates  at  all?  There  is  the  expense  of  feeding 
them  to  be  considered,  not  to  mention  the 
trouble  of  exercising  them  and  keeping  them 
clean?  Does  it  repay  one?  I  should,  from  my 
own  experience,  answer  in  the  affirmative,  for 
this  reason — it  is  possible  to  say  sarcastic  things 
about  curates.  If  you  urge  that  you  do  not 
want  to  be  sarcastic,  or  to  be  thought  sarcastic, 
one  must,  I  suppose,  believe  you.  But  my  im- 
pression is  that  if  the  gentlest  dove  that  ever 
cooed  were  told  that  it  was  terribly  satirical,  it 
would  have  difficulty  in  concealing  its  pleasure 
at  the  compliment.  You  can  be  sarcastic  on 
the  subject  of  curates  when  you  would  find  it 
impossible  to  be  bitterly  witty  about  anything 
else — except,  perhaps,  mothers-in-law,  amateur 
theatricals,  and  seasickness,  or  anyone  who 
attempts  to  write  a  humorous  book.  It  is  not 
probable  that  your  sarcasm  will  be  new,  but  it 


CURA  TES.  305 


takes  a  stronger  reason  than  this  to  stop  a  sar- 
castic person  when  his  blood  is  up.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  are  objections  to  keeping 
curates.  They  use  a  good  deal  of  tea,  and  set 
examples,  and  marry  on  the  least  provocation. 
During  the  Christmas  season  they  lie  in  a  jungle 
of  evergreens,  sucking  tin-tacks  and  watching 
their  parishioners  fall  off  ladders.  The  greatest 
objection  to  them,  of  course,  is  that  they  will 
work  on  Sunday. 


XII.— WATCHES. 

WHENEVER  I  see  the  bright,  intelligent  face 
of  a  young  watch,  or  stroke  its  soft,  curly  hair- 
spring, I  am  paticularly  impressed  with  its 
charm  as  a  home  pet.  It  costs  nothing  to 
acquire  one;  for  watches,  like  plush  tobacco 
pouches  and  candid  opinions,  are  generally 
given  to  you  by  someone  who  knows  no  better. 
They  are  cleanly  in  their  habits.  They  make 
excellent  playmates  for  children.  Their  vari- 
ety, both  in  structure  and  temperament,  is  very 
great ;  many  stories  might  be  told  by  old  fan- 
ciers to  illustrate  the  distinct  and  vivid  person- 
alities of  their  favorite  watches. 

A  friend  of  mine  once  had  a  watch  of  a 
romantic  and  imaginative  character.  He  al- 
ways assured  me  that  there  was  Italian  blood 
in  that  watch.  One  day  he  was  in  an  uphol- 
sterer's shop,  trying  to  find  something  which 

would  give  his  chambers  a  higher  tone,  when 

306 


WA  TCHES.  307 


his  attention  was  attracted  by  one  of  those  tall 
old-fashioned  clocks.  At  the  same  moment  he 
noticed  that  his  watch  had  climbed  out  of  his 
pocket  and  was  looking  hard  at  the  same  clock. 
He  laughed  at  its  playfulness,  and  put  it  back 
again ;  but  he  noticed  at  the  time  that  there 
was  an  envious  expression  on  its  second-hand. 
Presently,  as  he  was  talking  to  the  upholsterer, 
he  hit  his  waistcoat  pocket,  just  to  remind  the 
watch  that  he  was  outside.  To  his  surprise  he 
found  that  the  watch  was  also  outside ;  it  had 
jumped  out  again,  and  was  once  more  staring 
at  that  fine  old  clock.  He  wound  it  up  hard— 
to  punish  it — and  took  it  home  at  once.  It 
was  not  safe,  of  course,  to  take  it  about  the 
streets  any  more.  When  a  dishonest  loafer 
sees  a  man  dangling  loose  outside  a  watch,  he 
naturally  makes  use  of  his  opportunity  and 
takes  one  of  the  two.  My  friend,  getting  anx- 
ious, took  his  watch  to  a  watch  doctor,  who  said 
that  it  wanted  cleaning;  then,  not  being  quite 
satisfied,  he  consulted  a  psychologist,  who  said 
that  it  was  Ambition.  There  can  be  little 
doubt  that  the  psychologist  was  right.  The 


3°8  PLA  YTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

watch  had  admired  the  big  clock  immensely, 
and  it  was  now  trying  to  be  a  clock.  This  was 
unmistakable.  Whenever  the  hands  pointed 
to  the  hour,  it  always  looked  just  as  if  it  were 
going  to  strike ;  and  it  went  much  more  cheer- 
fully when  it  stood  on  the  ground  against  the 
wall  like  a  clock.  It  never  actually  became  a 
clock.  My  friend  sold  it,  and  afterward  found 
that  it  had  imagined  itself  into  being  a  sun- 
dial, but  could  get  no  further. 

I  do  not  want  you  to  be  misled  by  this  story. 
I  do  not  say  that  all  watches  would  show  so 
much  ambition  and  imagination.  I  simply 
have  given  this  as  an  instance  of  one  of  the 
many  varieties  of  temperament  to  be  found  in 
watches.  But  nearly  all  watches  resemble  each 
other  in  at  least  one  point — nearly  all  are  ex- 
tremely sensitive.  A  man  was  walking  out  one 
day  with  his  faithful  watch  by  his  side ;  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  allowing  his  watch  occa- 
sionally to  carry  some  little  trifle  for  him,  such 
as  a  postage  stamp  or  a  scrap  of  paper  with  an 
address  on  it,  and  it  was  always  quite  obvious 
that  the  watch  was  proud  and  glad  to  be  able 


WA  TCHES.  309 


to  assist  its  master.  On  such  occasions  you 
would  notice  it  jumping  about  and  champing 
its  swivel  in  a  most  spirited  way.  However,  on 
this  particular  day  he  purchased  a  penny  stamp, 
and,  out  of  sheer  absence  of  mind,  asked  the 
man  who  sold  it  if  he  would  kindly  put  it  in  a 
piece  of  paper  for  him.  This  made  it  a  bigger 
parcel  than  could  be  carried  by  the  watch,  so 
the  man  took  it  home  in  his  hand.  When  he 
got  home  he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  had 
gained  two  hours,  broken  its  mainspring,  and 
was  lashing  out  all  round  his  pocket  with  its 
regulator.  This  was  not  bad  temper;  it  was 
sensitiveness.  The  watch  felt  hurt  at  being 
neglected.  It  is  not  to  be  denied,  of  course, 
that  there  are  such  things  as  bad-tempered 
watches,  but  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  it  will  be 
found  that  this  bad  temper  simply  arises  from 
their  being  constantly  kept  on  the  chain.  The 
most  sensitive  watches  are  those  that  have 
three  hands.  The  third  hand  is  always  second- 
hand, which  is  a  paradox  on  the  face  of  it ;  and 
it  is  trying  for  a  watch  to  wear  its  paradoxes 
where  other  people  wear  their  smiles.  If  you 


310  PLAYTHINGS  AND  PARODIES. 

want  your  watch  to  be  miserable  you  must 
study  its  temperament.  Half  the  pleasure  in 
the  world  is  caused  by  careless  and  inconsider- 
ate actions. 

It  is  not  generally  denied  nowadays  that 
those  watches  which  contain  the  figure  seven 
in  the  number  they  bear  never  go  on  Sundays. 
Science  is  still  groping  after  an  explanation  of 
this  phenomenon ;  and  with  all  our  boasted 
progress  it  is  to  be  feared  that  no  satisfactory 
conclusion  has  yet  been  reached.  It  has  been 
asserted,  though  with  less  authority,  that  good 
watches  when  they  die  go  to  Geneva;  while 
those  whose  works  are  evil  do  not  as  a  rule  go 
at  all,  even  when  they  are  alive. 


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